


A Thousand Battles, a Thousand Victories

by Verity (PenelopeGrace)



Series: A Thousand Battles, a Thousand Victories [1]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: (for most of the fic anyway), + live on C-Span we have 2 idiots and one of them helps run this country, Alpha Katsuki Yuuri, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Politics, Another AU of a Movie But Can't Give it Away Unless I Want Spoilers To Get OUt, Bodyguard BBC AU, Congressman Victor Nikiforov, FBI Agent Katsuki Yuuri, How do I mention the cheeto without saying the actual name?, Katsuki Yuuri takes no bullshit from other people but still has plenty of his own, M/M, Mari Katsuki is a badass bitch boss, Oblivious Katsuki Yuuri, Omega Victor Nikiforov, Political AU, Politician Victor Nikiforov, Politics, USCP Officer Katsuki Yuuri, Victor still is a thirsty bitch, Yuri Plisetsky has a breakdown, he's such an idiot, like all adults yuuri completely ignores his own feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-16
Updated: 2019-08-01
Packaged: 2020-01-15 02:49:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 27,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18489766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PenelopeGrace/pseuds/Verity
Summary: Katsuki Yuuri is tasked with bodyguarding a difficult protectee - Congressman Victor Nikiforov of Alaska.abo + BBC's Bodyguard AU





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from Sun Tzu. It's about knowing your enemies, and something something something. I admit I didn't read the book. But the quote was pretty cool. I swear the book is on to-read list. 
> 
> This is a BBC's Bodyguard AU. Here Viktor is the politician and Yuuri, the bodyguard. Set in US, because if I set it in Japan or Russia, it's a little weird and I can't make some of the points I would want to. Plus, I have studied American government and politics before. I started writing this fic. . . And then it merged into another AU, but I can’t say cause spoilers! 
> 
> I admit I only watched first two episodes of that show. I read spoilers for what happens later, and I was like. . . Uh, no. I'm not writing that. So here's the Victuuri version now. 
> 
> If anyone tries to put together a timeline for this fic, let me tell you that it probably won’t make any sense and the dates might be a bit off and all over the place. I only did this for the writing, not for the timeline, lol. 
> 
> Further note: Mari Katsuki, in this fic, is born in 1985. Yuuri, 1989. Viktor, 1983. It’s currently 2019, and 2020 is the next election year. Viktor, as Alaska’s Congressman, is up for reelection in 2020. Rest of the character’s ages are all over the place. 
> 
> So this is the ages. Viktor is 35, Yuuri 29. Mari is 33.
> 
> Viktor’s also on House Committee on Intelligence and Energy and Commerce. He's ranking member in the Committee of Intelligence. Ranking member is appointed by the minority party and the highest-level person of the minority party. 
> 
> Yuuri joined West Point at 17, graduated at 21, worked in the military until 26. 
> 
> Plus, this is a/b/o. I couldn’t resist. XD

_January 2019_

Yuuri Katsuki stands at the train station, breathing in fresh air as he watch a few passengers jump off or step on. The train isn't expected to leave for another ten minutes. Yuuri knows. He has taken this route at least once a month. He peers through the window to find Axel, Lutz, and Loop sleeping in their seats. Axel’s legs are mashed against the window, and Lutz has her arms interwoven into Loop’s loose-fitted jacket. The three girls easily fit into the space of two seats. Lutz abandoned her seat by Yuuri ten minutes after the conductor checked their tickets.

Yuuri swivels his head, turning to examine his fellow passengers. Too many years and experience of being in an unknown territory, too many nightmares in a hostile environment taught Yuuri to always be on high alert. Even in the very country he calls home.

His gaze pass over a covered woman fidgeting nervously, the man next to her gripping her arm tight. They enter the coach in front of Yuuri’s. He tilts his head.

Too nervous.

His mind immediately goes to the worst possible, but as soon as the word of _suspicious_ whispers into his mind, he dismisses it. No, just his paranoia acting up. His palms begin to feel sweaty, and nerves unwillingly rise against his neck.

Afghanistan never really left Yuuri.

He steps back into his coach and leans back against his seat. The alpha breathes slowly. Only part of his imagination. Only part of his imagination. Only his imagination. He stares at the triplets, watching them sleep quietly as the train bound to Washington D.C. begins to move.

Once Yuuri’s breaths have slowed down in pace, he looks around the coach. He never sleeps on trains unlike the triplets, but he—

His eyes latch onto the sight of a nervous Amtrak employee coming down the rows. She has a radio in her hand as she struts briskly into the other coach, the transparent doors sliding closed behind her. Her blond hair escapes out in wisps out of her bun as she listens at the bathroom door.

Yuuri’s stomach drops.

Something very wrong is happening here.

He turns to the beta woman reading a large fantasy book on the opposite side of the coach. “Excuse me. Can you please watch my kids?” He gestures to the triplets sleeping.

“Sure,” she replies, nodding.

Yuuri stands.

He watches the beta woman walk towards the front of the train, whispering quickly into the radio. He follows her into the next radio and reaches into the back of his pocket. “Excuse me, is there something wrong?”

She turns, a false smile brightly glimmering on her lips. “Sir, there is nothing to be worried about. Please return—”

Yuuri pulls out his badge. “I’m Yuuri Katsuki, FBI Special Agent. May I ask if there is something wrong?”

She gingerly looks over his badge, her hand shaking as she grasps the leather edge. Looking at the quiet rows of seats behind her, she quietly answers, “We got radioed a tip about a bomb an hour ago. In the passenger car 4, someone called in about a suspicious person entering the bathroom twenty minutes ago and not leaving.”

Yuuri summons the map of railways in his mind. “We’re about thirty minutes away from Union Station.”

“Yes, that’s what they believe will happen. There’s already police called, and they said they will be here soon.”

Narrowing his eyes, Yuuri quickly thinks. The last time he faced anything like this was back in the Middle East, but this isn’t the same. This is calculated warfare designed to hurt as many people as possible. These people never witnessed a war. “You can’t stop the train. They’ll know something is wrong and set it off.” He draws up the surrounding areas of the bathroom and remembers the door. “Can you open the door while the train is moving?”

“What?”

“I think I got a plan.”

 

* * *

 

With the beta’s phone number on his phone and ready to dial, Yuuri stands outside of the bathroom door. He gives one last glance at the triplets. If all goes well, they wouldn’t know a single thing of what happened. Yuuko wouldn’t let them hear of it. He dials the phone number, his phone gripping tightly.

He waits steadily, his heartbeat pounding loudly in his chest.

The bathroom lock clicks open, and Yuuri’s heart stops. “Okay, get ready.”

An olive-skinned man of Middle Eastern origin steps out, not armed in the slightest. The alpha jolts at Yuuri and passes by the Japanese man, giving him a scowl.

Yuuri breathes out. “Sorry, looks like false alarm.”

“Okay, Mr. Katsuki.”

Yuuri turns to look at the triplets once more, smiling at their sleeping faces several feet away. He runs a hand through his messy hair.

The door clicks again.

Spinning quickly, he sees a familiar covered woman with a vest armed with homemade IEDs. The detonator is right in her fist.

 

* * *

 

Yuuri can’t breathe.

 

* * *

 

She’s terrified.

Yuuri can tell, smelling the prevalent sweat of fear in air. It’s Yuuri’s fear. It’s her fear. A quick glance over that homemade vest tells him that there’s enough to create substantial damage and injuries, fatal ones. He still has the Amtrak employee on his phone, quickly telling the situation at hand.

He doesn’t even know what he’s saying.

But years of experience overseas take over, the actions being automatic and instinctive. He finds himself tell her, “You don’t have to do this.” He finds himself grasping at straws, hoping beyond the chaos that they can both find a consensus at the cliff’s edge. There is no game of chicken played, no brinkmanship that wouldn’t end badly. “You and me? We’re the pawns in this game. We’re the people who die at the frontlines while they sit in their armchairs and create a war to sow destruction in the name of peace. They don’t care about us. But there’s still a chance to turn back.”

The train slowly comes to a stop. To Yuuri’s relief, the windows outside show they’re not anywhere near Union Station. Passengers are jumping out of the car, and he sees a beta watching over the triplets and guiding them away from the rails. Police in tactical suits have completely surrounded the train.

“My name is Yuuri. What’s yours?”

“Aliyah. Aliyah Safar.”

“May I call you Aliyah?”

She nods, sweat pouring down her forehead.

“Mr. Katsuki, I need you to step aside,” demands the harsh alpha S.W.A.T. officer. Her barrel points straight at Yuuri’s back. That gun, when fired, sends a bullet that would go through him and the Aliyah. Through their heads.

It’s one way of solving a problem.

But it’s not necessary.

He finds himself guiding the young omega woman every step of the way. He shields her from the sniper’s view, and when EOD finally comes to remove the vest, he truly relaxes.

 

* * *

 

Ciao Ciao, Yuuri’s boss and the Supervisory Agent, congratulates him for making the Bureau look good and for peacefully resolving an intense situation that could have cost the lives of dozens of people. Then he tells Yuuri, “Come to my office.”

Usually never a good thing to hear.

Once Yuuri shuts Ciao Ciao’s door, Ciao Ciao tosses a thick stack of paper on the desk. He shakes his head. “It’s unfortunate to lose you, Yuuri. We here at White Collar loved you, you know. But with what you did on the train, USCP is really interested in you. They want to steal you for a little to help them cover a Congressman.”

US Capitol Police protects members of US Congress. Honestly, Yuuri would rather be working all day tracking mail fraud through actual letters at dozens of post offices than be following around some random Congressman who probably bit off more than he could chew and made a few enemies out of no few disgruntled voters.

Yuuri blinks. “I’m not qualified for that. I worked in White Collar for the last two years.” Plus, he is certain he has picked up a little extra weight since he left the military less than three years ago.

“But your career history says otherside, Yuuri. You were in counterintelligence when you were in the Navy, and you graduated top of your class at West Point with a degree in economics. They’ll send you for additional training. It’s a good thing. Get out of this stuffy office and actually move around a little.”

 

* * *

 

_March 2019_

At the end of training, Yuuri is called back to the FBI field offices in Washington D.C. and given a thick file to read through. His assignment?

Congressman Victor Nikiforov.

 

* * *

 

**I’M GOING TO PUMPED LEAD INTO YOUR PRETTY FACE NIKIFOROV!!!**

 

* * *

 

_I’m going to string you up the flagpole. Then your dog._

Note: Bottles of pig blood were included in the package.

 

* * *

 

Voicemail Transcript:

Subject: [heavy breathing] It was so easy to find your phone number, little omega. I’m going to find you and tear you apart for what you did. [laughter] In more ways than one, you cunt.

[End transcript.]

 

* * *

 

**Fuckcongress @confckingsux**

Nikiforov shouldn’t be in Congress. We already made examples of omegas who has ambition. It’s time we do something about it. #letoutthesnipers

 

* * *

 

Yuuri blinks rapidly, shaking his head from the thick pile of death threats Victor Nikiforov got within the last six months. He’s beginning to see why this Congressman needs extra security. Plus, he has a disturbing ability to draw out the creeps.

He turns to his computer in the temporary office USCP gave him. The government laptop pulls up a browser and googles one Victor Nikiforov.

In the age of the current US President, he wonders how Congressman Nikiforov plays the long game of politics.

 

* * *

 

### Victor Nikiforov

#### U.S. Representative

Victor Nikiforov, also known as Viktor Nikiforov, is an American politician serving as the U.S. Representative for Alaska's at-large congressional district, currently serving his 5th term. Wikipedia

 **Born:** December 25, 1983 (age 35 years), Anchorage, AK

 **Secondary:** Omega

 **Office:** Representative (R-AK At-large District) since 2011

 **Education:** University of Alaska Southeast (2006)

 

* * *

 

Victor Nikiforov always votes for Republican legislation despite being omega, analysis ... https://www.newyorker.com/.../victor-nikiforov-congressional-votes-analysis-capital-and-... Dec 20, 2018 - Review of his seven-year record in Congress shows ... However, a new analysis of congressional votes from the non-profit think ...

Victor Nikiforov, US congressmen and fashion icon … https://www.vogue.com/.../victor-nikiforov-us-congressman-and-fashion-icon- … Oct 29, 2017 - In his fourth term as US Congressman ...

 

* * *

 

**[Leroy Congressional Rally 2013 by ABCNEWS - Senator Leroy outs Congressman Nikiforov as an omega]**

1:34: “Senator Leroy, one of the major complaints about the Republican Party is the lack of concern around omega health.”

1:46: “Well, I don't think that's possible, Dean. You know we have omega politicians in some of the highest position and offices in this land.”

1:55: “You mean state senators? That is only at a state level, not a federal level.”

2:03: “Congressman Victor Nikiforov of Alaska is a Republican omega.”

 

* * *

 

**[Washington Post] Victor Nikiforov: Breaking the System From Within - Opinion**

_By O.A. Niyazova_

As someone relatively close to politics, I’m astounded by the revelation that Mr. Nikiforov is an omega. Despite the passing of federal anti-discrimination laws in the 1960s, today’s numbers of omegas in the workforce overall only increased 67 percent since then. It’s surprising that Mr. Nikiforov passed himself so successfully as a beta during his 1st and 2nd campaign.

Ever since the outing a few days ago, Congressman Nikiforov’s popularity soared with both positive and negative consequences. From discriminative letters to tweets of outrage and shock to voices of concern and support, the response to his unintended outing garner discussion of what it means to be an omega in the modern world.

Senator Leroy’s deliberate outing of Congressman Nikiforov. . .

. . .

Omegas, though far from the outright discriminative days of pre-60s, have a long way to go still. No “outed” omegas has ever run for a position equal to or greater than of Congressman Nikiforov’s magnitude and won. Congressmen and Senators who are incumbents have a high probability of being reelected. But as an omega and a Republican and an incumbent, could Victor Nikiforov retake office for his 3rd term?

**O.A. Niyazova is a political scientist from California. He graduated summa cum laude with a Master’s in International Relations from Princeton University.**

 

* * *

 

**National Defense Authorization Act for Fiscal Year 2019 (HR 5515)**

Bill Passed (351-66) on May 24, 2018

Proposed authorizing FY2019 appropriations and policies for Department of Defense (DOD) programs and activities

  * The details: Two hundred and twenty Republicans and 131 Democrats voted for the bill. Fifty-nine Democrats and seven Republicans voted against the bill. Seven Republicans and three Democrats did not vote. The bill proposed $617 billion in base spending, $69 billion for the Overseas Contingency Operations war fund, and $22 billion for nuclear weapons programs. It included funding to hire 16,000 active-duty troops and a 2.6 percent pay raise for members of the military, the largest pay raise in nine years. It proposed $25 billion for equipment maintenance and funding for ships, aircraft, and military vehicles. Additionally, the bill proposed measures to prevent military aviation mishaps and fatalities. It proposed establishing an independent commission to study military aviation safety and authorized $39 billion for aviation upgrades.



 

* * *

 

Yuuri looks through Congress voting records to see Nikiforov under the Yeas. He isn’t surprised at all. He turns off the computer, having read through the analysis of Nikiforov’s voting record. More appropriations for military spending. All that money for war. He gets an A from the National Rifle Association. ACLU gave him a 33 percent rating for his voting record on civil and political rights. National Right to Life Committee gave him 70 percent.

There’s honestly very, very little Yuuri agrees with Nikiforov politically. Everything Nikiforov stands for, Yuuri is against.

He figures it doesn’t really matter. He’ll simply keep his mouth shut. His job is to be a bodyguard to Congressman Nikiforov, not a political analyst trying to tear him apart. The Congressman already has a lot of people wanting to kill him anyway.

 

* * *

 

He first sees Congressman Nikiforov in front of the Washington D.C. building that house the Congressman’s local office. At seven fifteen, he steps out of the black SUV, sunglasses on with a killer smile and a suave suit. A few photographers snap their picture. Yuuri has already looked through their press credentials, recording their names and employers. All of them are from fashion magazines. Vogue, Elle, the works.

“Sir, I recommend you take the underground entrance,” Yuuri says.

“Well, I’m late for a meeting, officer.” Congressman Nikiforov flashes him a quick grin, brushing past Yuuri. He flicks his silver hair over his eyes. His scent hits Yuuri’s nose, undefined and bland. Like a beta. “You can criticize me afterwards.”

Yuuri shakes his head, staring right at the Congressman’s retreating back. He sighs. It won’t be easy protecting this man.

A small blond alpha with his hair in a ponytail coughs. The Congressman’s assistant, Yuri Plisetsky. “The old man is an attention whore.”

Yuuri rapidly blinks, taken aback.

 

* * *

 

The entire day is spent literally following the Congressman around to places. He goes to this classy restaurant for lunch where there are no prices on the menu, but Yuuri just knows that he could never afford a light salad here on his government salary. Afterwards, he goes to Capitol and Yuuri stays with the rest of the security guards and USCP officers in the designated security station. He finds it five o’clock in the afternoon sharp when he walks a few steps behind the Congressman, his eyes scanning Independence Avenue for suspicious characters.

Congressman Nikiforov heads home to a luxury apartment near the Embassy of Iceland. He has the north side of the 4th floor, which is the second highest floor in the building. Yuuri accompanies him up the elevator and into his apartment. Yuuri opens the door for the Congressman and says, “Please wait here.”

The Congressman huffs in exasperation with the air of a man who has been through this process before, gesturing to the empty space. “Be my guest.”

Yuuri turns on the lights, moving through the spacious apartment. He finds the kitchen, all silver, shiny, and modern. Definitely far more extravagant than he’s used to. He passes by an expensive dog bed with clean happy toys surrounding a customized dog bowl engraved with the dog’s name. He finds a television in the living room, loads of pictures of Congressman Nikiforov surrounded by important people and foreign heads of state. Mildly disturbed, Yuuri finds him smiling the same way with his head tilted at the same angle at the camera in all of them.

He pauses at a picture of the Congressman with the British Prime Minister along with other European heads of states including the French Prime Minister and the German Chancellor.

“That’s a picture of us to commemorate the conference where we decided to cut up the world into our liking,” sarcastically quips the Congressman, quietly slipping into the living room with his loafers on.

Yuuri glares at the Congressman’s shoes.

“Do you hate what I said or do you hate my shoes?” the Congressman openly wonders.

Deciding not to respond, Yuuri turns to examine the nearest door. He flicks on the light to find an office with bookshelves and painting frames against the wall. Nothing out of the ordinary. The next room is the bedroom with golden comforters made over a king-sized bed. The closet door is open. It looks like something out of a home magazine.

Yuuri approaches the last door. As soon as the door opens, a big brown animal pounces on Yuuri’s chest and sends him sprawling on the floor. The dog quickly licks Yuuri’s chin to forehead, its tag wagging happily against Yuuri’s leg. She boofs.

“Makkachin, get off!”

Yuuri’s hands find their way through Makkachin’s fur. Wheezing for air, Yuuri laughs at the poodle and maneuvers the animal off of his chest.

“I am sorry about that, officer. She loves everyone. I keep her in here if I didn’t have a dog sitter so she can’t ruin the plumbing again. They nearly kicked us out of the building when the water went all the way to second floor ceiling,” the Congressman explains, kneeling down to pet her. His cerulean eyes glimmer at Yuuri, his silver bangs falling to the side. “She loves toilet water and any food you leave out. If she feels upset, she’ll chew through all of my best shoes.”

“She’s a good dog,” croons Yuuri, looking straight into the dog’s beautiful eyes. His fingers scratch her chest. “The very best.”

It’s only when Yuuri backs away from the duo did Yuuri realizes he has briefly seen the man behind the mask.

 

* * *

 

The next day has Yuuri following Victor’s exact steps throughout the Capitol. Yuuri has to leave his handguns with security, but he learns the faces and names of the Congressman’s staff. Yuri Plisetsky, a harsh critic of everything his boss does and the Congressman’s twenty-three-years-old assistant, has the unique ability of saying whatever he wants and getting away with it all while wearing leopard-printed fashion that’s rare and probably unfashionable among Congressional staff. Within the last three hours, Yuri Plisetsky has openly called the Congressman the following insults: baldy, old man, idiot, moron, receding hairline, attention whore, unworthy piece of shit, white-haired man, jerk, jerkass, ass, asshole, and needs-to-be-laid.

The Congressman simply ignores every single insult, instead grinning brightly at his assistant in obnoxious joy. He laughs every insult away, as if Yuri hadn’t insulted him in the first place.

The other notable member of his staff is the Hawaiian-shirt-cladded Otabek Altin, the Congressman's twenty-seven-year-old adviser who is rumored to be a prodigy in politics. Yuuri isn't sure of his secondary gender. He smells clean, almost scentless like Congressman Nikiforov.

“Yeah, Senator Altin's son,” says Yuri. “Never talk about it again.”

Yuuri raises an eyebrow. Senator Altin is a prominent politician from California, a major force in the Democratic Party. Congressman Nikiforov is of the Republican Party. It’s a little strange how Otabek crossed party lines.  

“Mila is his other aide and runs his office in Alaska. You won’t see her unless it’s really bad. We are missing his campaign manager. Chris. He flirts with anything that moves, but with 2020 election coming up, he'll be more serious. The old man is up for reelection. We already have most of the ads and TV spots set up.”

“It's over a year before election,” says Yuuri, surprised.

“You know what they say about Congressmen. They are always campaigning. He would rather not go for Senator or any position higher anyway.”

“But more prestige? He's also attractive to the American people.”

Yuri glances around the hallway and his personal desk. He lowers his voice. “Victor always felt he could do more in Congress than some place else. Plus, he believes he has too much baggage he attained over the last ten years of his career.”

“Baggage?”

“You don't stay in Congress without compromising and wrangling things in the swamp. One thing Victor taught me is that you can't have everything. That's politics in a nutshell.”

 

* * *

 

Exiting from the fancy restaurant, Yuuri paces a few steps behind the Congressman. The Congressman, as usual, is not eating alone. This time, he has met with longtime lobbyist, Yakov Feltsman, who represents some defense manufacturing company. The conversation seems polite, with Victor subtly annoying Mr. Feltsman more and more as minutes fly by. Mr. Feltsman ends up leaving in a huff and an eyeroll. But not before paying for lunch with a sizable tip for the service.

“Victor!”

The Congressman stops, pulling a bright smile out of thin air. “Ah, Senator Leroy!”

“We have to discuss HR 7638, you know. You keep missing phone calls from my son.” The Senator is representative of Ohio, having been in Senate for more than twenty years. His salt-and-pepper hair shines in the sun, slicked with hair oil and sprayed with hairspray.

“What can I say? Yuri doesn't like your son.”

“You should fire Plisetsky. God doesn't know why you keep him around.”

“Despite his lack of manners, Yuri is an excellent assistant. He does what is necessary.”

“Necessary, yes. But not exemplary.”

The Congressman airily laughs. “You know what Yuri says. Minimum wage requires only minimum effort.”

Senator Leroy shakes his head. “But let's get to the truth, Victor. You don't support the bill.”

“I haven't read it.”

“Damn it, Victor. It's going to be voted on tomorrow.” The Senator's scent grows stronger, demanding, and dominating. Suffocating the fresh air.

With the hair on the back of his neck rising, Yuuri steps between the two men. He stares hard at the alpha. “Sorry, Senator, but would you please let us move?”

“Excuse me? What are you? Some Chinese beta hired help?”

Yuuri blinks. “I'm actually a _Japanese-American_ alpha, sir. I work on behalf of the U.S. government. And you are excused.”

Victor passes by Yuuri and climbs into the waiting sedan, a small heart-shaped smile playing on his lips.

 

* * *

 

“I never got your name.” Yuuri pauses in his routine scan of the Congressman's apartment.

“Yuuri. Yuuri Katsuki. My last name is Katsuki. Japanese traditionally put their family name first.”

“You told Senator Leroy that you're an alpha?”

“I am.” He flips the curtains.

“You don't smell like one.”

“Unscented soap and a tightly controlled alpha side, sir. I don't like rubbing my scent all over the place. Plus, it's part of Japanese culture passed down for centuries. We are far more subdued than the average American.”

“But you're born here?”

“California, yes.”

“Former member of armed services?”

“Navy.”

Victor doesn't say the usual empty line of “thank you for your service” said by every random person Yuuri has ever met. Instead, he asks, “You were recruited right out of high school?”

“I went to West Point.”

“Oh?” The Congressman raises an eyebrow. “Whose nomination did you get?”

To get into West Point, Yuuri needs to be accepted by the Academy and also have Congressional nomination. Over ten years ago when Yuuri was seventeen, he sent letters to the U.S. Vice President, the two Senators of California, and his Congressman. His sister, Mari, went straight into Army and got shipped into Iraq.

“Senator Altin.”

“One of the two things I have to thank Senator Altin for then.” Victor fidgets his fingers, opening his mouth as if to choose his words carefully. “I never apologized for what I said last week when I first met you. I'm sorry for what I said and for infringing on your job. I'll try to make it easier for you.”

Yuuri nods, strangely touched. It’s almost as if Victor sees right at Yuuri.

“All water under the bridge?”

“Yes, sir.”

 

* * *

 

**Your F-07 bomber killed my brothers. YOU WILL BE PUNISHED FOR THIS.**

**Leroy**

**Nikiforov**

**Smith**

**Jones**

**Ji**

**de la iglesia**

**. . .**

**You're all marked for death**

 

* * *

_April 2019_

“You should be on high alert, Agent Katsuki,” says Special Agent Sara Crispino from the BAU, her voice coming clearly over the landline. “We are examining the unsub's letter, but we don't have much to go on. We did get a homemade pipe bomb mailed to the Capitol. We disarmed it, but until we find who this is, keep your eyes open.”

“You believe he or she is part of military forces?”

“Yes, but not sure who. The F-07 had quite a few accidents because of design error and was shot down twice. One crash during a practice run. It will take a while to go through the list until we find this guy. Congressman Nikiforov is on the hit list that involves a hundred and thirty members of Congress. Both retired and present.”

“Thanks for the heads up.”

“No problem.”

 

* * *

 

At NBC's station, Congressman Nikiforov sits on the cushy armchair while a makeup artist lightly accents his features. Yuuri keeps his eyes moving, the audible voice on the radio whispering security details directly into his ear. Walking around the Congressman in brown sandals, Otabek Altin highlights over major talking points while the cameramen continues setting cameras up.

“Congressman Nikiforov? We'll be on air in ten.”

“Thank you.”

“Briefly mention over the threat, but it’s better to show a strong front. Encourage people to inform the authorities if they see anything suspicious,” says Otabek, stoically going through his checklist. “It’s likely you’ll be asked about proposed Planned Parenthood defunding bill proposed by Congressman Jones.”

“Congressman Jones,” Victor tuts. “Remind Yuri to send a note. Tell Jones that he’s an idiot to try when the bill failed while we held majority in Senate and House. What makes him think he’ll succeed now?”

Otabek continues down the list. “There's also a gun control bill being voted on today. HR 7638. It's contested.”

“I still haven't read the summary.”

“Critics of the bill says it infringes too much on civil liberties. NRA is doing their best to push against it, citing that it affects 2nd Amendment.”

“Is it gun removal or control?” A hint of sarcasm in Victor's voice sends Yuuri's eyes snapping at the Congressman.

“Gun control.”

The Congressman sits back. “Send me your analysis on it. Top of the desk, first thing when we get back to office.”

“Okay.”

Yuri makes his entrance, rushing to the Congressman. “Here's your—” Yuri suddenly trips over the rug.

The coffee splashes all over the Congressman's shirt and suit jacket.

“Yuri!” Victor stands up, hissing. “Get some napkins!”

“Shit, Congressman is going on air in three,” says a woman.

“This shirt is ruined. I need a new one.”

Otabek looks down at himself, shaking his head. He's wearing khakis and a cheesy Hawaiian shirt that Yuuri recognizes is from Costco. “He can't be seen wearing this. It's not his style.”

Yuuri isn’t sure if it’s even _Otabek’s_ style. The happy, playful clothes doesn’t seem to suit the stoic man at all. Yuuri could count on one hand the few FBI agents who could beat out Otabek’s demeanor.

“You're fatter than me, Victor,” snaps Yuri. Standing at 5 feet and 4 inches, Yuri would be more accurate to say that he’s far tinier than his boss. Congressman Nikiforov is over 6 feet with a wider frame. Otabek's clothes wouldn't fit the Congressman either, despite Otabek being closer to the Congressman's height.

Fingers moving of their own accord, Yuuri steps forward and strips out of his blue tie. He pulls his arms out of his standard black suit jacket. With practiced ease, he pops each button of his shirt to reveal his ballistic vest. He passes the two articles over to the Congressman. “I modified my shirts and suits to fit over my ballistic vest.”

The Congressman pauses, coffee-soaked napkins clutched tightly in his fist.

“Downside is it’s not designer,” Yuuri says, feeling the beginnings of anxiety. Maybe it is idiotic of him to offer. Maybe it’s not in his job description. Maybe this little story will be passed around the fireplaces of present and future Senators and Congressmen, laughing about how a bodyguard overstepped and made a unprofessional faux pas.

“Thank you, Yuuri,” replies the Congressman, his eyes unreadable. With those words, all of Yuuri’s nerves fall away. For a second, in that moment, Yuuri wonders if the air has suddenly smelt achingly sweeter.

 

* * *

 

The interview breezes by for the Congressman. He easily dodges questions about the clothes he’s wearing instead of dropping designer names, builds up support for law enforcement who are working around the clock to hunt down the pipe bomber sending threats to Congress, talks a noncommittal sentence about college tuition, and brings the interview to closing.

But of course, the interviewer has just another question.

“There are confirmed rumors about Senator Leroy pushing for an amendment for the Patriot Act. Sources close to the Mr. Leroy has stated it’s an increased expansion to its powers. You worked closely with Senator Leroy on more than several bills and committees over the course of your career.”

The Congressman nods.

“Now there are several concerns about the amendment becoming too powerful and infringing on the privacy of Americans. In fact, Yuuko Nishigori, who is a well-known law professor of Columbia University, has stated in a recent interview and I quote, ‘Leroy’s proposed amendment is too vague in language and could easily open up wrongful and invasive investigations into lives of Americans without probable cause. For example, NSA could look into Jane Doe, who clearly doesn’t have any ties to terrorist networks without any repercussions. ICE could access any phone and texts to find alleged illegal immigrants without actually checking to see if they are.’ End quote.”

“Well, Senator Leroy’s intentions has always been in the interest of this country. He's a proud Patriot who believes we can do better than yesterday. His proposed amendment is still in progress, the final version not yet crafted. I wouldn’t worry about a first draft, because it doesn’t always reflect the finished product. I believe that Senator Leroy would close the loopholes.”

“What are your thoughts about HR 7638?”

The Congressman’s confident smile doesn’t fade. “It’ll be passed if the American people want it to pass. We’ll stop any bill that tries to infringe on our 2nd Amendment rights.”

“One more question.”

Here, Yuuri could see the Congressman's eyes flash with something akin to annoyance.

“Congressman Jones is currently trying to push through a Planned Parenthood defunding bill through House. Two years ago, when the Republican Party held majority in Senate and House, the almost identical bill tanked. But voting records indicate you voted with Congressman Jones.”

The Congressman nods along the words of the interviewer, waiting for the question.

“Out of the three secondary genders, omegas are the most impacted by Planned Parenthood. You are the only male omega out in Congress, but you have stated in a past interview that you are not religious but atheist. You have never openly stated your position on abortion. Why did you vote for defunding?”

To Yuuri’s surprise, the Congressman isn’t even fazed by the sudden turn in topic. He smoothly replies, “Planned Parenthood is taking too much funding in the federal budget. We should defund it and then introduce a different organization with similar goals with the capability of helping more at less expense. I consider myself to be fiscal-oriented rather than focusing on social issues.”

“So you are not pro-choice or pro-life then?”

“Mr. Ackers, I’m more concerned about the federal budget. It’s been years since we have lowered the yearly deficit and pushed for a genuine effort to lower the national debt.”

“That is curious, however, Congressman Nikiforov. You are on the House Committee for Intelligence, which recently proposed giving a pay increase to agencies including the FBI and CIA and expanding into more investigations on potential criminals. Defense spending takes the most percentage of the federal budget, after Social Security and Medicare spending.”

“Defense spending is mandatory. We have enemies in this world that we need to defend from. We face unique 21st century threats that we have not faced before. To counter these people who are seeking to harm regular Americans, we put more funding into drones, recruit the most brightest of Americans into our armed forces, and put more boots on the ground. We aim for efficiency that brings results.”

“Thank you, Congressman Nikiforov.”

“Of course. I’m happy to be on your show.”

 

* * *

 

_Put more boots on the ground._

More soldiers out there, in other words.

“How many more of us have to come back broken, Congressman Nikiforov?” Yuuri asks in the darkness of his empty apartment.

He finds no answer in the silence.

 

* * *

 

They’re on the road from some fancy lunch party hosted by some high-ranking executives of some multibillion corporation when bullets start popping at the sedan. Luckily, Nikiforov’s usual car has been switched out by US Capitol Police last month for something much more durable, but glass has a breaking point.

The burst of driver’s brains over the Congressman sends him throwing up caviar in the backseat, the remains of the lunch on the carpets.

“Stay down! The bullets can’t make it through the car frame!” Yuuri ducks down himself, trying to hide as much as himself as possible from the view of the sniper. From the sound, he guesses whoever it is would be from at a high vantage point. Maybe on the highest floor or the rooftops. Southeast.

He desperately reaches at his ear, trying to gain the fragments of the radio feed. “This is Katsuki. I’m with Halcyon at the moment. Driver’s dead. There’s a sniper shooting at us.”

“Police on their way. ETA 10 minutes.”

The ETA sends Yuuri reeling with rage shimmering in the pits of his stomach. “10 minutes?” he roars, shaking off the remnants of his anxiety. “We are sitting ducks here!”

Yuuri ignores whatever comment the USCP officer has to say. It’s not like he’s facing a rain of bullets to the head.

Slipping out of the car on the opposite side of the sniper, Yuuri pulls out his phone and takes a quick picture in selfie mode. One of the few things he learned from his ex-roommate, Phichit who works Counterterrorism Division in the FBI. The many ways to use selfie cam. Yuuri only wishes he has one of Phichit’s selfie sticks so he doesn’t have to risk his arm in the line of fire for more information.

Confirming Yuuri's suspicions, the picture shows of a lone sniper scope on the rooftop of one of the highest buildings on the southeast side.

He dives back into the car and inches closer to the driver's side, shoving the dead driver out of the car. Bullets whoosh by, slamming themselves into the armor. He quickly shuts the door and starts the engine, ducking his head down while heading northwest. He switches his microphone on. “Halcyon on the move.”

Once the bullets stop hitting the chair and they have moved towards the federal building in D.C., Yuuri pulls himself up in the driver seat and chokes out, “Mr. Nikiforov, please stay down. I'm going to drive us to the FBI.”

The Congressman says nothing, at first. After a long minute or two has passed, he whispers, “Thank you.”

 

* * *

 

At seven in the afternoon, Yuuri goes to Victor's apartment. They have spent most of the day reporting the attempted assassination at the FBI building. Yuuri searches through the apartment, doing security checks and looking out the windows for anything out of the ordinary. Makkachin’s not here, which means she must be out with a dogsitter.

Once completed, he stands awkwardly in front of the Congressman. “Well, my shift is done for today. Do you need anything?”

The Congressman stands still. Then he moves closer to Yuuri until there’s nary an inch between them. He grips Yuuri’s wrist with cold, shaking hands, and he tries a smile. He shakily purrs, “Yuuri. . .”

“Victor,” he whispers. The air smells sweet, like jam and ice and tea.

It’s the only switch the Congressman needs. Completely flipping the stereotypical roles in the movies and media, Victor slams Yuuri against the wall. He captures Yuuri’s lips easily, kissing as if his very life depends on it. It’s rough, it’s wanting, it’s desperate, and it’s _so very wrong_.

“Victor,” Yuuri pants, retreating from the hot press of Victor’s lips. “We can’t.”

Victor steps back, his neck arched as if pained. His breaths come out in gasps, his hair skewed over his eyes. He looks the opposite of his public persona.

Yuuri recognizes the signs of a hurt omega. A rejected omega about to go into a drop. Yuuri wraps his arms around the taller man, scenting him as much as possible. He quietly explains, “I’m sorry. I want to, but we can’t. I work for USCP. If they even hear about this, we’ll be put in front of the Committee of Ethics sooner than we can deny it.”

Victor nods, his breaths evening out. He could barely carry his own weight, leaning upon Yuuri. “Sorry. I wasn’t. . . I wasn’t thinking.”

“You want to talk about it?”

“No. . .” A pause. “Maybe.”

“Then I’ll stay close to you.”

 

* * *

 

Yuuri ends up grabbing ahold of Victor’s legs and princess-carrying him to the living room, gently planting him on the couch. He finds a thick blanket for Victor and pries off Victor’s designer shoes. Yuuri examines Victor’s cupboards in the kitchen, looking for his tea bags or maybe some hot chocolate packets. He finds traditional Chinese tea bags hiding behind the water kettle.

“Here.” Yuuri stirs a little bit of strawberry jam into Victor’s tea cup. He places the spoon onto the tea tray on the coffee table. “Maybe this will help warm you up.”

A silver-haired head pops up from the blankets. He sits up, reaching out for the tea cup. “Thanks, Yuuri.”

Yuuri settles in the armchair next to Victor’s couch.

“If anyone told me if becoming Congressman would put me in the sights of a sniper, I might have not went for this job,” Victor says, blowing across the black tea.

“No one goes into a job, expecting to be a target of assassination attempts. Except for the President.”

“I went into politics to help people. Well, the priority’s supposed to be Alaskans, but I got side-tracked by federal politics. I ran on a platform on fishing, oil, natural resources, and pro-small businesses. My predecessor, well, he did an excellent job, but I wanted the position. I wanted the office. Whatever it took. I ran and won in a landslide against an incumbent. I let my voter base be drawn into my style and looks. I let people assume that I was a beta.” Victor gently places the tea cup down on the table without a clatter.

“You were outed years ago.”

“By Leroy, yes. I was so angry. Still angry. It’s my right to reveal it or not, yet he just. . . Gave it away as if it was nothing to him. Gave it out to the world, so he could use me as a stupid party prop that says, ‘Hey, omegas support us, too!’ That day he revealed my secondary, the amount of death threats skyrocketed. Letters from concerned voters asked if being an omega would affect my decisions in Congress. As if I was a fresh newcomer straight out of Alaska.”

A few decades ago, everyone had to “come out” in their secondary genders at the age of eighteen to twenty-one. Ever since the Civil Rights Movement and Feminism’s Second Wave, federal labor laws prohibited employers from requesting secondary genders of a prospective employee. A cited study done in collaboration back in the 70s by many well-known universities with a whooping ten thousand omega participants conclude that an “openly known” omega made less than a “closeted” omega. About 78 cents to a dollar. “Openly known” omegas are less likely to gain promotions, more likely to be subjected to sexual harassment and assault in the workforce, and treated unfairly overall.

“I nearly lost my seat. I held strong among voters in my hometown, but the voters who supported me two years earlier evaporated. Everyone totes about how our country is moving forward with the times, but all I can see are those simpering, condescending letters wondering whether or not I'm qualified. Yuri kept me from the worst of the letters. He was maybe fifteen, sixteen, or so. Ripped them up, burned them outside in the trash. Nearly got arrested for that.”

“But Yuri insults you all the time.”

“Yuri is all bark. That's the only way he knows how to communicate. He'll bite only if he really hates you. He figured that if he insults me, everything everyone else says would have a diminished effect. But if you ask him today why he calls me fourteen variations of an asshole, he'll deny that.”

“Can I ask you something?”

Victor nods.

“How did Otabek end up joining yout staff? Wouldn't he have joined his father? Like JJ?”

“Who is JJ?”

“Leroy’s son.”

“Ah, the one Yuri hates. Otabek had his own reasons for joining my staff. He’s well-qualified for his position, his motives are his own. It’s his story.”

“How did Yuri join?”

“His grandfather is one of my first supporters. He believed that I could be a Congressman despite knowing about my secondary gender. Yuri was still in elementary school when he came after school to put campaign flyers into envelopes. He answered phone calls, he put together posters, and one time, he even made a mock poster that said ‘Vote for Baldy!’ with all the spelling mistakes and bad handwriting included. If his grandfather was my first supporter, Yuri would be my second. Yuri, all the rage of a kitten.” He laughs and then turns serious. “You saved my life today.”

“Was my job.”

Victor slowly nods, letting the silence take over. He sips his tea some more and then randomly asks, “What’s the funniest thing that happened to you?”

“I. . . Uh, what?”

“Funniest thing?” prompts Victor.

“I. . .” He blurts out the first thing in mind. “I’m a terrible drunk.”

Victor giggles and suddenly covers his mouth. “Sorry!”

Yuuri’s stomach warms at that sound. He blushes and says, “But really, I am!” A part of him wonders if he’s insane for saying this. Or telling this.

“What did you do?”

“We were celebrating our graduation from FBI Academy. So about a dozen of us decided to go bar hopping. After the third bar, I had no recollection of anything that happened that night. But when I woke up in my apartment the next morning, I found five phone numbers all over my torso. There were over fifty text messages from people I don’t know, but apparently, I told them that if they have seen a federal crime, they can report it to me.”

Victor snorts. “Even drunk, you’re still a Fed.”

“Not really. That’s not even the worst of it.”

“Now you have to tell me.”

“A year later, a buddy of mine wanted to avoid doing a few cases that no one really wants to do at White Collar. It’s mostly a headache to look through the case files. Lots of numbers to crunch, lots of names, and not very interesting usually. He proceeded to show me photos of what happened that night. It was me. . . And I was. . .”

“You were,” prompts Victor.

“Barely clothed. Working a pole with people throwing bills at me. I later got some blackmail material on him, so we’re even now.”

Victor laughs. “I have some terrible stories as well.”

“Oh?”

 

* * *

 

They end up talking for three hours after Yuuri’s shift has officially ended.

 

* * *

 

Yuuri couldn’t help but sense a change in a fundamental paradigm he once held. He has never seen Victor so. . .

Human.

 

* * *

 

A little over a week later, Yuuri receives a call from Quantico. His shift gets temporarily taken over by an USCP officer, and he takes his Prius for the hour drive into Virginia. He signs in with his FBI security card and is escorted to an office on the third floor. It’s a nice office, if impersonal and bland. Something he might have looked forward to if he worked hard enough in White Collar and climbed the ladder.

“Yuuri Katsuki, correct?” says an unfamiliar agent in sharp suit. Not even waiting for Yuuri’s reply, he unbuttons his suit jacket and gestures to Yuuri. “Please sit down.”

An alpha, Yuuri recognizes. His dominant, aggressive scent oppresses Yuuri’s nose, nearly sending Yuuri into an unusual rage. Detachedly, Yuuri wonders what it would be like to give in. To stand up right here and right now to start a pissing match. Release some pheromones, loosen his tie, strip off his suit jacket, roll up his sleeves. But decades of ingrained culture and manners prevent him from carrying such aggressive action. Yuuri leans back in the chair, relaxing as much as he could.

However, Yuuri has never encountered such a repugnant scent before.

The agent is sharp enough to hawkishly watch every move. He calmly and casually notes, “That eliminates one secondary gender. You’re definitely not an omega.”

“Requesting to know the status of secondary genders is illegal. Is this what this meeting is about? Because if it is, I’m going to leave.”

“It’s not what this is about. It’s about your assignment with USCP.”

Yuuri’s face falls completely blank. “Is there a problem with my assignment?”

The blonde alpha shrugs. “Is there a problem?”

Yuuri narrows his eyes. “Then what is this about?”

“Your assignment.”

Yuuri wonders if he could contain his alpha side any longer. This man is perhaps the most infuriating person Yuuri has ever met. A large part of Yuuri wants to get his fist out and punch him in the nose. Nonetheless, Yuuri swallows and says, “And what about it?”

“We’re a little concerned about Congressman Nikiforov, Agent Katsuki,” says the alpha. “Ever since the Mueller report came out, we wondered about how high does the Russian connection goes. So I am asking you to quietly record of who the Congressman meets and sees, his location, and his—”

Yuuri interrupts, “On what ground?”

“Sorry?”

“What reasonable suspicions do you have on Congressman Nikiforov?” Yuuri raises an eyebrow at the agent.

“He’s Russian.”

Yuuri stares straight at his eyes. “He’s Russian-American. His family has lived in Alaska since the 18th century. Prior before Alaska even became a state. I doubt there is a two-hundred-year-old conspiracy to internally corrupt the American government.”

“He has strong foreign connections.”

“So does many other Senators and Representatives. Are you going to put them all under surveillance as well?”

“Agent Katsuki, I—”

Yuuri stands up from his chair. “What you are proposing is wasting my time and energy that I could be using to effectively do my job at the USCP. Unless you have reasonable suspicion to run this surveillance, this is the same disgusting motive that put my Japanese-American family in internment camps during World War II.”

“Agent Katsuki!”

The bodyguard heeds no more attention to the agent. He swiftly slams the door open, turns a few corners, and marches to the receptionist. He stands in front of her and asks, “Hey, I’m Yuuri Katsuki. Can you give me the name of the agent I’m supposed to be meeting?”

“How do you spell that?”

Yuuri spells out his name for her.

She blinks at the computer. “I’m sorry, Agent Katsuki, but it doesn’t look like you have been booked for an appointment today.”

“What?”

“You have no meetings today. Would you like me to book you one?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry.

_May 2019_

“Sara,” says Yuuri. “What do you have for me?”

Sara Crispino, the FBI agent from the BAU, speaks through the phone. “We’re almost wrapped up with the investigation with our pipe bomber, but I’m happy to confirm that the sniper’s DNA we caught during Congressman Nikiforov’s attempted assassination matches the DNA present on the pipe bomb we intercepted. Unfortunately, he’s dead as you have already heard all over the news, but I’m glad this is over. I’m very confident that the major threat against the Congressman and all other representatives in our government is no longer a threat.” 

“Thanks, Sara. How are you doing?”

“Sad about the case. I would have loved to poke his brain.”

“Yeah,” Yuuri simply replies. Honestly, he doesn’t care as long as the threat has been eliminated. Even if it was through suicide and not an arrest. 

But Sara, who graduated top of her class in the omega-dominated field of psychology as the only alpha in her class and got her Ph.D. from the University of Chicago and cranked out notable papers in academic journals throughout the years, simply love walking through strange, disturbing minds. She’s notorious for three things in the Bureau: 1) her infamous but possibly unrequited crush on Janice from Cyber Division, 2) her sizable collection of antique guns with their respective ammunition and a Vietnam War deactivated landmine from actual Vietnam, and 3) her magnum opus, which is a fundamental psychology paper on sibling codependency that has been cited by over a dozen academic papers around the world. Technically, the third item also includes her formerly codependent brother, who is reputed to be “very sexy” and “hot-tempered” and “fiercely protective” despite the fact that few have ever seen him.  

All three deter their coworkers from flirting with her. 

“You doing okay, Yuuri?”

“I’m doing fine.”

“You don’t sound okay.” A pause. “I might not be from Human Resources, but if you’re overworking yourself, it’s okay to admit you need a break.”

“It’s not that, Sara. I’ll figure it out.”

“Okay, Yuuri.” She doesn’t sound too convinced.

 

* * *

 

“Yuuri,” Victor purrs, showing up at the security offices. The other USCP officers avert their eyes and pretend to be paying not a single bit of attention. From what Yuuri has heard, not a single Congressman or Senator come down here with their actual physical bodies unless they had a severe security issue. Typically, they sent their assistants or aides. 

“What?” He looks up from his paperwork. 

Victor frowns. A delicate pale finger reaches out to the corner of Yuuri’s mouth and wipes away a bit of white cream left at the corner. He brings it to his face, his pink tongue slipping out to lick away the cream from his fingertip. “Hmm, caramel macchiato from that coffee shop down the street? The Italian one?” he asks, as if he hasn’t just stirred the butterflies in Yuuri’s stomach and warmed Yuuri’s cheeks. 

“Uh, yeah,” Yuuri quickly replies, stammering over his words. In a sudden, all the the blood drains from his head and pools someplace inappropriate. 

“Delicious.” A pause as Victor smiles sweetly at him. “I need some help with lifting.”

Yuuri thinks about it and then looks down at the countless number of reports he still has to go through. He weighs his options and as casually as possible despite the fierce pounding of his heart, answers, “Alright.”

 

* * *

 

“Where are we going?” he asks. 

“Picking up something from the janitor closet. I hope they didn’t move it.” Victor looks up and down the hallway before pulling out some keys. “I hope Yuri actually did put it here. Sometimes, he jokes he broke it all and I can’t tell if he’s serious or not.” 

The door opens. Victor flicks the light on. 

“Let’s see. . . Where did he put it?” 

“What are we looking for?”

“A-ha! He did put it here!” 

 

* * *

 

Yuuri just knows this screams of _bad idea,_ but it is not like Victor would actually listen to him. Yuuri already protested once or twice. Three dusty boxes about the size of Makkachin surround the two men. A few feet away at the corner are actual yellow signs saying “wet floor”, “caution”, and “restroom closed for cleaning.” 

It’s not going to deter anyone who’s actually reading. 

The hallway they’re in possesses lovely carpets. A gold plaque on the door proclaims the office of a certain US Senator from California. 

“Why are we in front of Senator Altin’s office?” 

“Yuuri, how closely do you follow the bills miraculously and currently going through Senate?”

“Umm. . .” Yuuri hasn’t seen anything from the news. Then again, journalists and reporters focus far more on the American President than the many bills striving through Congress. Except for the gun control bill running its way through Democrats-majority House of Representatives, which seems to have more popularity and public interests than most bills. 

“Hmm, I don’t even know which party you’re in.” 

“Uhh. . . I think it’s best for me not to say.” 

Victor nods. “Fair enough. So we managed to get through the plastic regulation bill through the House. It’s specifically to target a plastic called polyethylene terephthalate. It’s dangerous for everybody when it leaks out a metalloid after being left in the heat or on the shelf for too long. We’re unfortunately not able to get a bill that says no production of this plastic, but hopefully, the tax on this plastic will lower the production and convince businesses to look for alternatives.” 

Yuuri pauses at the things within the box. “But you need to have glass cups in front of Senator Altin’s office to get a message across?” 

“Not just glass cups. Otabek’s getting the ice. Help me put all of these in front of his door.” 

Yuuri’s suddenly reminded of setting up dominos while taking the glasses out of their boxes. He asks, “Is there a point to made here?”

“Well, certain sources say Senator Altin isn’t standing very strong on this issue. I want him to vote for the passing of this bill. A way to do that is to use climate change.” Victor gives him a strange, demure side look. “Also, there’s nothing like iceplay to make someone excited.”

Yuuri chokes. “What?” 

 

* * *

 

If Yuuri volunteers occasionally for menial coffee runs as a favor to Yuri Plisetsky and picks up caramel macchiato from that little Italian coffee shop down the street instead of letting Victor drink his usual one black coffee with a spoon of sugar, that’s between Yuri and him. 

 

* * *

 

“Vitya, this thing about Senator Altin’s office screams of your meddling,” says Yakov Feltsman, shaking his head over a fancy bowl of clam chowder and a large glass of red wine from France vineyards. According to Yuri Plisetsky, as soon as his plane from Honolulu landed in D.C., Yakov himself made the soonest appointment with Victor. Small and looking not at all imposing, Yuri angrily said that he’ll send an invoice of his appointment with an otolaryngologist to Yakov. He also made a loud complaint about rising healthcare costs in “this fucking country.” 

“What thing?” airly asks Victor.

“Don’t play games with me. If they knew that you swayed the vote, your own party is going to tear you apart.” 

Yuuri, standing a few feet away from the window and watching the restaurant patrons come and go, listens with half an ear. He turns away briefly, narrowing his eyes at a somewhat old man in his sixties getting cozy with a pretty young woman. Looks like a sugar baby. 

“Yakov, do you remember what percent of Americans know their representatives? Their Congressman?” 

“Thirty-seven.”

“In Alaska, it’s seventy-nine.” A pause. “I’m not worried.” 

“Vitya,” Yakov warns, his voice low. 

“I survived reelection for my third term. A male omega, who is openly known and a member of a party infamous for its ‘08 treatment of omega candidates, got reelected into office.”

“You were a male incumbent.” 

“Both parties tried to take me down. Right now, I’m far stronger than I was in my second term. A little thing about plastic regulation isn’t going to bring me down.”

“They’re rebranding it as climate change hoax law.”

“It’s plastic reduction. Altin needs to take charge on this.” 

 

* * *

 

As Yuuri’s eyes snags themselves onto a pale creamy shoulder exposed by a black silk robe, Yuuri catches himself for staring far longer than socially acceptable. Victor, casually lounging on the couch and seemingly unaware of Yuuri’s complete attention, continues to scroll through his Twitter feed. 

Yuuri darts away, his cheeks flushed. 

 

* * *

 

“Yuuri,” purrs a voice. 

Yuuri brushes his hand down a pale, smooth back. His mouth reverently draws a line down the omega’s spine, and Yuuri feels a confident hand wrap itself around his cock. Yuuri meets the beautiful icy blue eyes of one Victor Nikiforov. 

Victor smiles at him, lighter and more vulnerable than Yuuri has ever seen before. “Yuuri,” he purrs again, his voice deep and desperate, “I need you.”

Then Yuuri gasps himself awake. 

 

* * *

 

Like all of his problems, Yuuri proceeds to suppress his memories of dreams that couldn’t be and shoves them all into a place he rarely ventures.

 

* * *

 

_June 2019_

On June 10, Victor’s phone rings during a lunch meeting with a couple Senators and Congressmen. He completely ignores the call while Yuuri stands a few feet away, watching the windows and the buildings across the street.

Congressman Ji’s phone begins to ring as well. The young omega from the Democratic Party awkwardly silences it, nervously smiling at the other Senators and Congressmen. “Sorry, a call from my assistant.” 

Senator Crispino frowns, pulling out his smartphone from his expensive brand-name suit jacket. “I missed a bunch of calls from my sister.” He texts a message on his phone, adding, “And she never wants to call me unless necessary.” 

“Is something going on?” asks Ji. 

Yuuri frowns, his finger at his earpiece. There’s a sudden influx of messages going through, almost as if a disaster is happening elsewhere. Or nearby. 

Yuuri’s stomach sinks in terrible anticipation. 

Then the radio cuts in. “Halcyon, check-in.”

Facing Victor, Yuuri turns on his microphone. “Halcyon in sights. We are at 435 Main Street Northwest in a restaurant called Little Aria.” Then he switches off. 

“Inferno, check-in.” 

Yuuri switches his microphone back on. His eyes follow around the circular table, keeping an eye on the concerned representatives. “Inferno in sights. Same location as Halcyon, Knight, Apollyon, Lifter, and Tahoe.” 

The security feed continues on. “Ash, check-in.” 

“What is going on?” demands Senator Crispino. 

Yuuri shakes his head. Whatever is happening is enough to send USCP into running check-ins for every single Senator, Congressman, and Congresswoman under their protection. He’s certain they’ll know soon enough. 

 

* * *

 

“Breaking news, this is coming in as we speak. At least twelve people are confirmed dead. Local hospitals in the D.C. area are struggling with the masses of bodies coming in—”

“It’s a terror attack,” whispers Victor, staring wide-eyed at the tv screen in his office. “This is why.”

Yuuri solemnly nods. “They’re sending more USCP officers and pulling some US Marshals to help with security detail for all representatives. We’ll be heading home a little later.”

Victor stiffens, as if startled by something. “Home?” His voice seems smaller and fainter than Yuuri has ever heard from the politician. 

“Yes, your apartment. You could still go home.” 

“I see.” He shivers. “I don’t feel safe.”

 

* * *

 

**Viktor Nikiforov ✓ @v-nikiforov**

My condolences goes out to the victims and families of this terrible tragedy that happened here in our great Capitol. 

**Viktor Nikiforov ✓ @v-nikiforov**

If you see any suspicious objects such as backpacks and boxes left unattended in a high traffic area, please call your local police at 9-1-1. 

 

* * *

 

Thirteen should be a lucky number. Especially when it’s not on a friday. Then again, Yuuri has never been superstitious. 

One moment, he walks a few steps behind Victor from his morning conference with a bunch of rich people. The next millisecond sends a black SUV exploding just across the street, throwing everyone nearby back from the blast. The world shakes, deafening in the wake of destruction. In the distance, someone is screaming. Within seconds, Yuuri takes ahold of Victor’s shoulder and guides him, guarding him back into the building. His mind whirls, pushed forward by the fierce will and need to protect this omega. Moving on autopilot, he barks orders at the nearby bystanders to stay inside the building. 

He barricades them in the janitor supply closet, locking the door and them moving the heavy shelves in front of the door. Yuuri turns on his microphone. “Halcyon inside the building at 232 Boston Avenue. Car bomb went off across the street. Requesting backup.”

“Police en route. ETA 15 minutes.” 

Yuuri bites back a scream. 15 minutes? It shouldn’t be that long.

“Yuuri,” whispers Victor, panic evident in his words. He sinks to the ground, wincing with his fingers clutched around his leg. “I’m bleeding. . .” 

Yuuri quickly moves over, briefly blocking the fluorescent lights above. He kneels down, gently uncovering Victor’s fingers. He examines the wound with a critical eye. There’s a line of blood forming on a straight line, above Victor’s ankle. Most important fact is that Victor will live, to Yuuri’s relief. “It looks worse than it actually is. It’s only a scratch, but we want to keep it clean. Put pressure on there.” 

“Oh,” Victor moans. “I can’t believe this is happening.” 

Yuuri turns on his microphone. “This is Katsuki. Halcyon needs first aid. Minor injuries.” 

“Is this. . .? Is this what you saw overseas?”

Yuuri doesn’t answer. Instead, he says, “Relax, Victor. Everything will be alright.” 

“I’m not dying?”

“No, you’re not. You’ll live to a ripe old age,” says Yuuri. 

Victor shakily nods. Suddenly looking far younger and more innocent than Yuuri has ever seen, Victor softly asks, “Can you. . . Can you hold me?”

Not saying a word, the alpha releases as much calming pheromones as he could while wrapping his arms around the omega’s torso. His heart beats quickly against Victor’s back, the fear of the unknown coiled tightly in his stomach. 

 

* * *

 

After submitting their reports to the grim-looking law enforcement and the FBI Counterterrorism squad, which unfortunately does not include Phichit, Yuuri drives Victor back to his apartment near the Embassy. Victor lays in the backseat, unusually quiet and not staring at his phone. He parks the car in the basement and opens Victor’s door. 

“We’re here.” 

“Thank you.” Victor sighs, sitting up and slipping his shoes back on. “It feels like it has been a long day.”

“It has been.” 

 

* * *

 

“You could go home, you know.”

Yuuri shakes his head. “It’s only three in the afternoon.” 

“We nearly got bombed to death, and it wasn’t even nine in the morning yet.” 

“Victor.” 

The omega looks up at Yuuri from the couch. 

“I’m not going anywhere.” 

Significantly relaxing, he nods. “Thank you.” 

 

* * *

 

It’s four o’clock, and the sun still shines bright outside. Yuuri quickly chops through the green onions, one eye on Victor sitting at the tall stool of the kitchen island. He casually watches the rice dry through the clear glass lid of the rice cooker. 

“You don’t have to do this, Yuuri.” Victor’s suit jacket is tossed randomly in the living room, leaving Victor strangely uncomposed. 

“When I lived in California with my parents, I suffered through lots of panic attacks. Far more than I do now. But whenever I messed up on the inevitable presentation or speech debate, my mother made me this dish called katsudon. It’s a pork cutlet bowl.” 

“It seems like a lot of work.”

“Not really. The hardest part is finding all the ingredients from the store. Putting it together is the easiest part. I’m really surprised that you have everything.” 

“I cook a lot. Back in Alaska, cooking is a necessary skill. Especially in the winter. I tried my hand at various cuisines with varying levels of success.”

 

* * *

 

“Here.” Yuuri places a bowl of katsudon in front of Victor. Steam rises from the freshly made eggs and pork, soy sauce used carefully. He offers clean chopsticks to the Congressman, napkins wrapped around the wood. 

When Victor takes one bite out of the egg, his cerulean eyes light up. He cracks the first heart-shaped smile since the bombings earlier today, and Yuuri’s heart misses an entire beat. 

“Vkusno!” 

 

* * *

 

“You already cooked,” admonish Victor, reluctantly passing his bowl over to Yuuri. “You don’t need to wash as well.” 

“It’s not an issue. I can do it.” 

Surprisingly, Victor doesn't fight Yuuri over the dishes. Instead, he cocks his head, a finger poised over his chin. He casually watches the alpha clean, making Yuuri’s stomach warm with a tightly coiled ball of heat. When Yuuri washes the last of the dirty plates and files them away, he finds his hands have nothing else to do. He turns and finds Victor a little behind him, smiling thoughtfully. Victor’s warm hands traces along Yuuri’s forearm, his blue eyes bright and willful on Yuuri. He keeps his eyes on Yuuri, never looking away. 

Leaning in gently, Victor nuzzles Yuuri’s neck. He’s scenting Yuuri’s clothes with pheromones, completely different from his usual scent. No, that’s wrong. It’s Victor’s _actual_ scent, the one he hides under soaps and determined control. Yuuri feels himself growing warm too fast, reacting to Victor’s scent by pumping out his own alpha scent. 

No. Rut pheromones. 

And Victor’s enthusiastically responding with heat pheromones. Yuuri’s head spin. It’s going so fast, unstoppable like a high-speed train running at 120 miles per hour. No brakes could ever stop it in a snap. Yuuri could begin the braking process by withdrawing from Victor and running straight out of the apartment. 

Yuuri knows they’ll have maybe one minute before Victor’s rut-induced heat becomes truly unstoppable. It won’t last as long as an actual heat but rather a few hours, but it marks the point of no return. 

And Yuuri? 

When Victor grabs ahold of Yuuri’s striped blue tie and complains it of being ugly and unsuitable to wear, Yuuri replies back without thinking and with too much encouragement, “Then take it off.” 

Reminiscent to the ancient days of conqueror omegas in the city-state of Sparta and where courtship was wrought with death, violence, and rivalry, Victor pushes Yuuri back-first onto his ridiculously fancy sofa, _prowls_ over Yuuri’s supine form, and maneuvers himself to straddle Yuuri. He tugs at the tie and slowly, so slowly removes it from Yuuri’s neck. It ends up being tossed somewhere behind Victor.  

Victor strips off his shirt in a hurry, leaving his chest bare and snarling into Yuuri’s ear. “You’re mine. All mine.” He tears the delicate buttons of Yuuri’s suit jacket and frowns at the sight of his ballistic vest. His heat-addled mind and fingers makes it difficult to delicately remove the protective gear. He whines, “ _Alpha_.” His lips sear a line of fire at Yuuri’s neck and teases his scent gland. Victor grinds his stiffening cocklet against Yuuri’s growing arousal. 

Feeling what the little remaining control he possess vanish, Yuuri quickly sits up and reverses their positions. Victor’s bright eyes dilate, and his mouth falls open in surprise. 

Ripping away the vest and tearing apart his cheap pants at the seams, Yuuri sees his vision beginning to blur as the mindlessness of his rut takes over. His instincts sends him pushing his erection against where he knows to be Victor’s wet opening. Victor’s fancy designer dress pants are soaked with his slick, sticking to his hole. Pulling himself forward and over Victor, Yuuri’s lips met Victor’s mouth for the first time, a fiery spark melting away everything else in burning heat. 

There is no USCP, no FBI, no terror attacks, no ethics, no politics. 

Just them. 

At the basest, most _primal_ level. 

The omega pulls away from the kiss. “Off, off,” whispers Victor, tugging at his pants. His brilliant eyes are wide, pleading with want and gluttonous _need_. “Please, Yuuri.” 

How could Yuuri resist? How could Yuuri _ever_ resist Victor? 

Yuuri moves down Victor’s torso, his lips skimming across Victor’s bare skin. He’s pale, and any marks on him would easily be _seen_ . Signs of Yuuri’s claim will be all over him, and Yuuri feels a hot possessive streak down in the depths of his stomach. He wants to be with Victor as long as he could, constantly renewing his marks and forging a bonding between them every day. He wants to see him fucked so _hard_ , he’ll be pregnant and swollen with their pups. Yuuri follows his instincts, squeezing Victor’s hips and nipping at Victor’s skin until he finds the lines of the omega’s fly. 

He doesn’t hesitate at all. He undoes the button with his fingers and then watches Victor’s widening eyes and debauched expression as he pulls the zipper down with his teeth. 

“Oh, fuck,” whispers Victor, his breaths coming in gasps. “ _Fuck_.” 

Yuuri pulls down Victor’s pants and the ridiculous black thong, revealing his cocklet and the dripping pink hole. The pants finds itself tangled around Victor’s ankles as Yuuri maneuvers to remove it. Rut-addled, he gives up completely, grasping his hand around the omega’s cocklet and licking away the dripping slick at the edge of Victor’s hole. Yuuri feels insistent hands combing through his hair. Yuuri eats Victor out, sucking as if it’s the last meal he would ever receive before meeting his end. He pumps the omega’s cock torturously slow. 

That breathless gasp Victor moans when Yuuri thrusts his tongue as deep as he could into Victor’s hole sears itself as a memory Yuuri will never forget. Pleasure drips along his spine as Victor shoves Yuuri’s head, as if trying to help Yuuri reach the depths of Victor’s warmth. 

Yuuri withdraws and proceed to quickly suck Victor’s cocklet. He keeps his eyes on Victor’s wide-eyed expressions, every ecstatic look Victor gives cherished and remembered. 

When he was in the Navy, he has been a government-sanctioned heat partner for half a dozen omegas who were only in heat for a few days for their regular off-suppressments day to ensure they weren’t abusing their medications. As one of the many government-sanctioned heat partner in the Navy, Yuuri has always thought this fact as weird, but there are statistics that shows Yuuri has been one of the most popular choices for a heat partner in his military years. But he acknowledges that he was a good heat partner, never breaking any boundaries or trying to steal a few more privileges from the omega soldiers. Never forcing himself on anyone. Making sure he was clean and kept meticulous safety standards. He even, to perhaps his eternal embarrassment, earned a little commendation medal for his excellent service. 

If the Navy officers and medical personnel could see him now, he bets they’ll take back his commendation medal before he could even protest. For Victor, he has broken at least ten rules, guidelines, and procedures. 

Sweet slick explodes into Yuuri’s mouth, sliding down his throat. Yuuri makes sure he catches every drop, sucking hard through the omega’s orgasm. A lovely flush crawls up the pale skin of the omega’s torso, his cheeks turning a light pink. Victor’s body relaxes for a moment, the heat temporarily sated by his orgasm. 

Yuuri gets off the omega, standing with the insatiable urge to return to Victor and to _knot_ him and to _fill_ his hole up and to _breed_ him. He ignores all of the urges and instead, redirects his alpha and himself to Victor’s whining. He shushes the omega and reassuringly whispers, “Bed.” 

Victor doesn’t protest when he is princess-carried to his bedroom and finds himself all over the comforters. Yuuri closes the door before Makkachin could dart in, the poodle curious but thankfully not hunting for affection. Yuuri stands still, his heart melting as he watches Victor tears off his pants and socks, sit up on all fours, cants his hip, and _presents_ the puffy hole that is his pretty cunt. A shiver of pleasure crawls up Yuuri’s spine and settles deep in his blood. 

“Knot me. Alpha,” the omega begs. 

Not missing a beat, Yuuri kicks off his pants and briefs and climbs onto Victor’s bed. He easily slips in a finger and tries another. Victor is so loose, dripping, and ready that Yuuri could easily slide in three fingers. 

“Knot,” insists Victor, wiggling. 

“Knot,” agrees Yuuri, kissing the small of Victor’s back. 

Yuuri lines himself up to Victor’s hole. Shoving down his urge to _fuck_ the omega as hard and soon as possible and successfully able to just so briefly, Yuuri pushes his dick in and moans at the welcoming heat. He allows Victor to adjust. For a moment. Then another. Then he begins to move slowly at first. 

“Harder, please. Please,” demands Victor. He turns his head, his shiny eyes somehow _bratty_ in demeanor. “Please, alpha. Give me _more_.” 

Unable to resist such a beautiful request, Yuuri pulls out until only the tip of his cock remains in Victor’s hole. Then he slams hard into Victor, leaving the omega a rambling nonsensical mess as he _nails_ that spot in Victor’s channel. The odd paintings on the wall sway, the headboard shakes from his force, and briefly, Yuuri worries for the structure of Victor’s bed. Then Victor needily whines, and all thoughts simply evaporate. 

Victor eagerly pushes back and gives as good as he gets, his greedy, tight channel squelching with slick. Victor lets out quiet, wanton moans of delight. An equal participant. Half of a pair. 

For the first time ever in his life, Yuuri knows he has someone he just wants to hold onto.  

Feeling his knot begin to grow, Yuuri thrusts harder into the omega until he could shove the base of his knot in. 

“Yes, yes, yes,” whispers Victor, nearly collapsing onto the sweaty sheets. “Stuff me with your seed.” 

Yuuri gives Victor a few more thrusts. One, two, three. Then he’s cumming so hard he sees nothing but white. His knot rapidly expands as Yuuri’s seed shoots deep into the omega’s passage, the seed hitting deep to search for an egg that would fit the combination of Yuuri and Victor perfectly. The omega screams, crying out the alpha’s name. The omega’s muscles around his knot convulse rapidly, spiraling down into an orgasm. Firmly stuck to each other, Yuuri pulls them down, slowly rubs Victor’s arms, and gently spoons Victor. He nuzzles the omega’s neck, tempted to bite into the scent gland. But Yuuri could feel more of himself coming back. 

He could feel sleep quickly overtaking him. Both of them. 

He'll face the damn consequences later.

 

* * *

 

There’s still sunlight streaming in from the double-hung fiberglass windows when Yuuri wakes up. He blinks away, startled by the sleeping omega in his arms. Yuuri feels a sudden chill in the air, though Victor doesn’t seem to notice. His knot has finally gone down. He tugs his soft member from Victor’s abused hole, the cum _dripping_ out of the omega’s entrance. Yuuri, absolutely enchanted, stares at the cum too long. Yuuri’s thoughts quickly turn _filthy_ , imagining the radiant and messy way Victor would look with all of his seed kept inside of him with a plug or with Yuuri’s knot. So full to the point that the only option is to get _pregnant_ , so contained of cum that’ll make Victor look pregnant in the third trimester— 

Enough. 

Stop. 

Yuuri climbs out of Victor’s bed, patting Makkachin’s head on the way to the bathroom. He relieves himself and comes out with a washcloth, cleaning Victor the best he could. He tucks the older man in, blankets and pillows fluffed up. As comfortable as possible.

Taking one last look at the omega, Yuuri leaves. 

 

* * *

 

If Yuuri could go back in time, he would have written up his letter of resignation after the first time Victor has prepositioned him. He has no urge of being dragged in front of HR, and he doubts Victor would appreciate his entire career being derailed after this sort of scandal. The entire country would see this sort of scandal dragged in front of hearings and investigations, especially when it comes to someone like Yuuri in the USCP and someone like Victor who is a Representative of Congress and an elected public servant. 

So he’s going to do the right thing, even if it means staying away from Victor. No one in the world will know that for a few hours, Victor was his just as Yuuri was Victor’s and nothing else matters. No careers would implode, and hopefully, the next bodyguard the Capitol Police assigns to Victor Nikiforov would be better than Yuuri. 

No one will know that Yuuri, for more than a moment in time, helplessly loved and willingly let go of one Victor Nikiforov. 

 

* * *

 

It’s ten o’clock by the time he gets home. Rubbing his eyes and putting back his glasses on, he begins his short letter of resignation addressed to his boss at USCP. Leaning back in his office chair, he pulls out his phone and texts Ciao Ciao. 

**Ciao Ciao**

I’m resigning from USCP.

I’m going to return to White Collar. 

You’ll need to come in tomorrow.

Lots of forms.

Sooner you fill them out, the sooner you come back.

Okay.

 

* * *

 

 

He sends his letter of resignation and turns in his two weeks’ notice to his boss at USCP through his government email. Apparently, he still has some more paperwork to fill on the FBI’s end of the transfer. The next morning before his friday shift, he takes a long drive to Baltimore’s federal offices where his former boss, Ciao Ciao, works. 

“I’m surprised you wanted to come back,” says Celestino, signing his name on the last page of the page of the transfer documents. He sets the pen down with a flourish. 

“I prefer office life to. . . Constant death threats and assassination attempts against Congressmen.” 

“But it’s more exciting than slugging through five hundred pages of court document some shady, legal-smart company decides to throw at us.” 

“There’s joy in finding the smoking gun buried underneath everything.” 

Shuffling the transfer documents, Celestino shakes his head in mock horror. “But the paperwork!” he jokes. Then more seriously and sincerely, he adds, “We’ll be glad to have you back, Yuuri.” 

“Thanks.” 

Celestino smiles. “You’ll have to clean up your office, though. While you were gone, your coworkers-slash-the-slackers have been using it for their lunch parties. I think I saw a hamster living in a corner.” 

 

* * *

 

The next monday night, Yuuri suddenly pauses as he stands in front of his apartment door. He narrows his eyes at the numerous scratch marks around the keyhole. The door, to Yuuri’s surprise, is locked. Quietly slipping in with his gun armed and the safety off, he flicks the lights on to find his apartment seemingly undisturbed. He sniffs, finding a subtle but unfamiliar sterile scent in the stale air. He can’t help but remember and compare it to the subdue scents of the American soldiers in Afghanistan. The omegas and some alphas with particular strong scents wear scent suppressants, if not suppressants in general. 

The hairs on the back of his neck rises. 

There’s not a single soul but Yuuri in his apartment. He goes through his valuables, finding his passport and important documents still present in his locked box partially hidden in his desk. However, he’s not certain if he could say with confidence that his social security number won’t end up on the dark web. It looks like the intruder did manipulate the lock. 

Yuuri moves onto his closet, diving to view his guns in the safe. He freezes when he finds one missing. Reaching for his phone, he calls the local police number. McLean police officers are at his door in fifteen minutes, and a report is filed in an hour. 

 

* * *

 

Yuuri does not sleep that night, a gun held tightly in his shaking hands. 

 

* * *

 

The next two remaining weeks of his career with USCP is spent by Yuuri as if nothing has happened. He still smiles at Victor, dances away when Victor seems to want more, desperately tries to ignore the overwhelming scent of Victor’s disappointment, and wishes he could find a way to tell Victor about his resignation. 

But he has two weeks to find a way. For now, he could smile and say everything is alright.

 

* * *

 

The last thirty minutes of Yuuri’s last shift ever with USCP is spent awkwardly trying to come up with openings and failing completely because his anxiety believes they are all not perfect enough. It turns out Yuuri doesn’t have to look for one. 

“You look nervous, Yuuri,” Victor says, purring in delight. 

“Let’s end this.”

 

* * *

 

“What?”

“I’m not going to be working for the USCP anymore, Victor. I’m not your bodyguard.”

“I. . .” 

Then there’s a knock at the door. With a curse and a twist of a doorknob, Yuri Plisetsky lets himself in. He tosses thick packets of paper with a huff at the floor. “Victor! This is all your stupid shit, Victor! You better appreciate it. Otabek worked on it for hours! All it needs is your signature!” 

Victor shakes himself, eyes wide at Yuuri. “Yuuri?”

“Victor, sign these!” 

Yuuri takes it his cue to leave. “My shift’s done. I’m heading home.” With a few strides, he slips into his shoes and rushes through the open door. 

“Yuuri!” Victor calls out just as the front door closes. His voice, usually so composed and confident, sounds so panicked. 


	3. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Interlude 
> 
> Thank you, tasharae, for beta-ing this chapter. :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um, okay. So I looked back and realized that Victor doesn’t really get much of a role here. Well, not as much as I wanted it to be. So since I’ve completed the rest of the fic, I’ve increased the chapter count on ao3 to 4. But really, this is just an interlude and a sneak peek of what Yuuri is facing in Ch. 3, which is 10k in size and the final chapter.

_June 2019_

“Congressman Nikiforov? Could you please answer the question?” 

Congressman Victor Nikiforov, representing the district of Alaska-at-large, sits across a boring sterile table and an one-way window in an interrogation room at the FBI building in D.C. How ironic that he is in this very federal building again. The FBI treated him far kinder a few months ago when Yuuri took him here. Now he’s locked in this room with a mellow, pushy, and ill-mannered federal investigator whose oppressive alpha pheromones reeks up the room. Victor’s nose merely wrinkles in thinly-veiled disgust. 

If Victor grew up in a household with an overly domineering alpha parent with traditional values and developed as a pre-1960s era omega, he might have rolled over and presented his belly to the federal investigator. But he was raised in a nontraditional household with alpha-omega parents who were a little surprised to find themselves with an omega son. They expected a beta child, based on their genotype. Both of his moms reared him with modern values, encouraged him to study primary and secondary gender history and politics and law and economics and whatever his heart desired to learn, and guided him through the breakup of his first shitty ex-boyfriend instead of threatening to take out their hunting rifle and shoot that bastard like what a hot-tempered alpha parent in the midwest might have done.

In regards to his then-boyfriend back when Victor was a junior in high school, his alpha mom drank down an impolite, brimming glass of brandy and then snorted, “As tempting as it is to shoot him or to teach you how to shoot a small moving target, it’ll be far more useful for you to learn how to properly breakup.” 

His omega mom offhandedly added, “If you could shoot a small moving target, I believe there is a lucrative but dangerous job waiting for you, Vitya.” 

“Vanya!” scolded the alpha. “We’re not teaching Vitya how to be an assassin!” 

A throat clears. 

“Mr. Nikiforov?” cuts in the federal investigator, waving a hand in front of Victor’s face. He washes away the remains of Victor’s childhood memories from the front of his mind. A small burst from the air conditioning vent sends angry, miffed pheromones to Victor’s nose. “Would you please answer the question?” 

Victor turns to look straight into the alpha’s bloodshot eyes and tells him, “I want my aide to be called. Otabek Altin. Or a lawyer. Before I answer any of your questions.”

 

* * *

 

Decked in colors of grey, Otabek leans against the dark walls of the interrogation room right next to the one-way window. He has switched from his usual Hawaiian shirt and khakis get-up to an imposing and eye-catching tieless business casual outfit Victor knows is American designer. He can’t be bothered to remember the exact name right now. He doesn’t care, and usually, Yuri is the one to tell him the name anyway. 

“Yuri’s cooperating with the authorities and turning over everything in the D.C. office. He’s been adamant that you’re innocent and any crimes you may have committed could not have been done without his notice. Mila is still in Alaska and flying here to assist in two days. She has to deal with the FBI in Alaska, who are pulling hard copies of files and everything they could get their hands on. Masumi is pulling as many strings he can in the press to keep the story low. He’s trying to kill the story the best he could. Chris is flying in tomorrow from Seattle, and Georgi got his head out of his latest breakup. He’s on the plane right now to assist Yuri and find proof of your innocence.” 

Victor clicks his tongue. “All of you should begin to distance yourselves from me.” 

“We’re not going to abandon you, Victor.” Otabek pauses and adds, “The Department of Justice is pulling Patriot Act to seize all of your assets, communication records including text messages and personal emails, financial records, everything with your name on it. The good thing is I was able to hire the top defense firm on this side of the coast. Their top lawyer is flying down from Maine and will arrive in three hours.” 

The Congressman pinches the skin between his eyes. He sighs. “Alright. Tell me what I’m going down for.” 

Otabek looks away, staring at the one-way window. “Mainstream media is currently running the story of you being a key witness or, depending on who you are reading, participant in terrorist groups involved with the bombings a few weeks ago.” 

The words take longer than expected to connect. 

“What the fuck,” gasps Victor. “ _What?_ ” 

“Fox News is no longer on the fence about you. They seem completely confident you’re an absolute traitor to America. They’re writing half-truths and less to crucify you.”

Victor scoffs. As a Congressman who has flip-flopped over the years and supported both Democrats and Republicans and their policies, repeatedly bashed the current Senate Majority Leader in his face about Senate agenda, and actually believes in climate change and a strong separation of church and state, Fox News varies between wholeheartedly supporting him as the one Republican omega standing for the average American unlike the three other Democratic House omegas, to subtly painting him as a spineless, brainless, worthless omega doing nothing in Congress. 

"And my fellow representatives?" 

"Some of them are quiet and trying to put some distance away from you, others are saying they are putting their faith in law enforcement. My father called twenty minutes ago, saying you should cooperate with authorities. With a lawyer present. And to actually listen to the lawyers. He's sorry he can't help anymore than that." 

Victor’s taken aback. He honestly thought Senator Altin would stay silent when publically asked about Victor and perhaps quietly abscond Otabek away from the limelight. "That's nice of him. What advice did he give you?"

"I can distance myself from you or I can help clear your name." A pause. "I still have no intention of returning to academia in any way, shape, or form." 

Feeling the warmth of gratitude and surprise, Victor nods. "Thank you, Otabek." 

Otabek stares at Victor, waiting. 

“There’s more?” Victor raises an eyebrow. “I thought domestic terrorism is already hitting the limit.” 

"They have suspects on the run. Who fit the profile more than you." 

Victor frowns, puzzled. Sure, he has a lot of connections in the intelligence community, but he doesn't think any of them have hardcore ties to terrorism. "What do they need me for then?" 

"Their suspects are FBI Agent Phichit Chulanont and USCP Officer Yuuri Katsuki." 

 

* * *

 

Waiting for the lawyer to fly in gives Victor a lot of time to think. Otabek has left to help Yuri dig through millions of documents and pictures to help Victor’s defense. Victor stares at the wall, unable to have a cell phone or anything while he sits alone. At least that annoying alpha isn't here to irritate him further. 

Yuuri Katsuki. 

That name sends brief tingles of pleasure in Victor's stomach.

Wanted for terrorism. 

Victor has never seen anything like that from the alpha. Then again, he has always been too distracted by the well-shaped and muscular thighs and that gorgeous, squeezable butt. Victor has never been a skirt-chaser like certain sleazy politicians and disturbing people in power, but having Yuuri around was testing his flawless reputation. 

He never told Yuuri, but after the alpha saved him from getting a head shot from a sniper, he called up his friend in the US Navy to obtain a sealed record of one Lieutenant Yuuri Katsuki. His record is impeccable and impressive. His years at West Point was praised, his understanding of economics sound. He specialized in counterintelligence and went through the necessary training for the Navy Seals, graduating at the very top of his class. 

The sergeant who oversaw his training wrote a tiny note next to his high scores received in boot camp. _Thoroughbred?_  

Victor paused at that then. Thoroughbreds make up about .8 percent of the population in the United States. Maybe more, but it is not possible to tell unless the genotype of the parents are known or if a genetic test was taken. They are more alpha-like than heterozygous alphas. Superior breed, to put it simply. 

Still, it's quite curious, for Yuuri exhibits none of the stereotypical alpha traits. Then again, Yuuri has always defied stereotypes.  

It's what Victor _loves_ about him.

He read through the list of missions he carried out and commanded, each one finished above expectation with exemplary effort and dedication on Yuuri’s end. At the end of the file, there’s a list of honors and medals he received. Some of them are small, the others not so small. The not-so-small one is the Navy Cross. Then there’s one that made him pause. It’s fairly huge in the military though not the public, and the names of the receivers are never released. 

Commendation Medal for Meritorious Community Service. 

It’s also known as a non-combat medal that isn’t commonly given out and not quite as prestigious in honor as the Navy Cross and the Medal of Honor. Maybe fifteen or so are given out every year to the entire US military body, and a soldier or officer can’t receive it twice. Some crass sailors in the Marines have vulgarly called it “the finest quality motherfucker of the United fucking States military fucking award.” Literal fucking involved, because it awards the best military-sanctioned heat partner with the best marks, exit surveys, self-control, and caring nature. Since the allowance of omegas in the military back in the 1970s and the creation of the medal, about a thousand alphas, betas, and omegas have received the award. 

All Victor felt when he read that fine print was an irrational wave of jealousy. There are omegas out there who have spent their heats with Yuuri, but he turned down Victor when he was throwing himself at the alpha the first time. 

Looking deep at himself, Victor knows the reason behind his jealousy. 

Here’s the thing. 

There are five steps in a primal courtship. The courtship of the old days. It’s based heavily on instinct and the lizard brain of the old rather than the enlightened thoughts of the modern man, used in the era of Ancient Greece and even before then. It’s not anything like the modern and pervasive 12-Step Western Information Era Courtshipᵀᴹ where Step 9 is akin to exchanging exciting genitalia pictures through text messages and mutual masturbation. It’s annoyingly copyrighted by a big matchmaking company and usually how most millennial couples take that step, and perhaps has correlation to the divorce rate today, but Victor digress. 

The point is that not many complete the primal courtship, which reaches into the very depths and subconscious of an alpha’s and omega’s brains, deeper than where civilized rules could reach. It’s still taught in finishing school, in history classes, and in anthropology classes. Victor learned the courtship from all three. The primal courtship goes as follows: 

_Step 1, declare intent with a token of scent._  

It helps the omega determine if the alpha is a compatible mate. 

That stupid shirt Yuuri gave him so many months ago held lovely notes of his actual scent. The shirt that saved Victor’s interview after Yuri spilled hot coffee over his designer clothes. For a moment, he lost control over himself and scented the air in interest. 

After the interview, when he and his staff returned to his office for the last brief meeting of the day, Yuri pulled him aside afterwards and said with disgust, “I can’t believe you did that today.” 

“Did what?”

“Moron, you’re not that dumb,” he cursed. “A Capitol police officer, Victor? You’ve never reacted to all those excited immature officers assigned to you before. One alpha that doesn’t drop everything on his plate to give you the time of the day, and you’re drooling like a teenager in high school.” 

Victor laughs. “I’m not drooling, Yura. I’m only being polite.” 

Regardlessly. That shirt. 

It's still hiding in his closet, in his stash of materials for his nest. Yuuri never asked for it back. 

Victor knew it wasn't really Step 1. Yuuri was just being nice. 

But then. 

_Step 2, gifts._

He only had to lift the side of his favorite coffee from the Italian coffee shop to smell a whiff of Yuuri's scent. The familiar subtle scent of sweat, of cherry blossoms. 

Of macchiato and sweetness. 

The first one, he wrote off. 

The second one, he also ignored. 

Then there was a third. There, Victor's omega rose from his 5-year-long sleep. He eagerly accepted every one, even though they were all given under the guise of his assistant. 

Eventually, Yuri confessed and confirmed it was Yuuri doing the coffee runs. Sometimes even throwing in pastries and buying actual coffee mugs from the shop. 

There were _forty-eight_ coffees. Sometimes, more than one in a day. 

There are _eighteen_ mugs of different sizes and designs sitting in the pantry of Victor's kitchen. 

_Step 3, protection._  

In the old days, alphas would protect the desired omega for a while or so. This could be fighting off rival alphas or actually defending from dangers. It's to prove they are capable of taking care of the omega and their incoming pup. 

There's once, from the sniper. There's twice, from the bomb. And then there's Yuuri standing up to Senator Leroy. His very job involves protecting Victor, but he can't help but see the steps forming before his eyes. 

He told himself that Yuuri was just doing his job. 

It sounds like a lie. Or a believable half-truth. 

A lie, especially now. 

_Step 4, providing food._  

Pastries. Coffee. 

Katsudon. Delicious, to-die-for katsudon. The alpha demonstrated his cooking skills, preened under the attention Victor gave. That certainly wasn't part of Yuuri's job. It was even on his off-hours. 

_Step 5, territory marking._

This, this, this. This one step. Scent-marking is not part of Yuuri's job. None of the previous USCP officers have done this, knowing each of their advances were unreciprocated. His omega screams at him every night to chase down his alpha ever since Yuuri began to scent-mark his entire apartment. It was subtle at first until it became ridiculously overwhelming to the point where Otabek, when he came by his apartment for some signed paperwork, sniffed curiously and asked this: 

"Is there someone courting you, Victor?" 

Otabek, who uses prescription suppressants in the form of daily pills since he presented at fourteen, wouldn't have as good as a nose as Victor, who isn’t on suppressants. But he could smell the scent of a courting alpha. 

So theoretically, Yuuri belongs to him. Wholeheartedly. Ever since they mated weeks ago. 

But here’s the other shoe. 

_Let's end this._

Yuuri went through every single step except for actually bonding, a mark on both of their necks, and said _that_ ? Talk about the _worst_ mixed signals in courting history. It beats Yuri's shitty courtship out by a thousand miles. 

Cause if Victor was ever asked, he would say fuck the Committee of Ethics. Fuck Congressional oversight. Fuck the possibility of internal investigations. He’ll take on the supportive and dismissive voters of Alaska, the diverse opinions of every single American, and the entire world as well. 

Yuuri is the one he wants. 

 

* * *

 

Domestic terrorism, however, really puts an iron-clad damper on whatever relationship they have. 

Had.

 

* * *

 

“Congressman Nikiforov? Your lawyer is here.”

Victor looks up. 

A vaguely familiar-looking beta in a ridiculously expensive custom suit brushes by the federal investigator and takes a seat on the other side of the table. He places his leather briefcase on the floor and scoots forward, leaning towards Victor. “Good afternoon, Mr. Nikiforov. You may not remember me, because it has been years since we’ve met, but I’m your lawyer along with my coworkers at Finley, Wombat, and Collins. Please call me Mr—”

“Cao,” finishes Victor. “I remember you. You represented my assistant, Yuri Plisetsky, when he got into a bar fight. While he was still under 21 with a fake ID in his possession.” 

“Yes, Mr. Altin referred Mr. Plisetsky to me.”  

“I hope Otabek gets a discount on his future fees. In case he ever needs to call on a criminal defense firm.” 

“For him, sure.” He quips, “For you, you’re charged full price for the firm’s wholehearted effort and attention. We’ll be working around the clock for you.” 

“Sounds like a sizable dent out of my wallet.” 

Mr. Cao shrugs, “Half the dent. It seems a benefactor has decided to boot part of it for you.” 

“Who?”

“A Mr. Yakov Feltsman. He also would like to pass along this message.” The lawyer reaches into his breast pocket and behind his purple silk handkerchief to pull out a ridiculously fancy note. He slides it across the table. 

Victor reads: 

_Vitya, don’t be an idiot. Listen to the lawyers._

“Yakov, eloquent as always,” Victor chuckles. He slides the note back to the lawyer. “Thank you for coming.” 

“There’s good and bad news in your situation, Mr. Nikiforov. The bad news is you’re in a custodial interrogation and considered by the federal authorities to be someone who may be a key witness. The good news is that you’re most certainly not any of the suspects they’re looking for nor do you match the profile, but you are still within their suspicion.” 

“Yuuri Katsuki.” Victor swallows the bitter taste on his tongue. 

“It’s where you become suspicious. They’re going to ask a lot of questions about your relationship to him. I’m here to prevent you from giving yourself enough rope to hang yourself. So tell me about Yuuri Katsuki.”

 

* * *

 

He ends up telling the lawyer a lot. 

But not everything. 

 

* * *

 

As a male omega in politics, he receives a lot of scrutiny. But at the very beginning? No, not much. In the beginning, in the first time he ran for US Representative of Alaska and won, he was a hot, attractive, wet-panty-inducing alternative choice to the then-incumbent Alaskan Congressman, who could be barely remembered by name and never recognized by appearance. Women of all dynamics lapped Victor up, and men were simply drawn in and bored of the old Congressman. They were charmed by Victor and his easy, self-assured confidence in the television ads. Then there were some who voted by party line and decided, _why not vote for the new guy? I got nothing against him._

So they voted Victor Nikiforov into office back in 2010. 

Inside of Anchorage, Alaska, the subject of Victor's secondary gender was and still is not a big deal. If anyone looked hard enough, dug up Victor’s ex-boyfriends, and interviewed his university classmates, they would’ve found out. But they didn’t look too hard, because Victor defied every omega stereotype. He stood tall among alpha reporters, didn’t bolt from inquisitive, demanding eyes, held firm in his beliefs, and charmed everyone with a wink and a smile. He didn’t play the stereotypical hardball alpha politician with a small ego problem, but rather, he stayed true to his softer side. He kissed doggos and kitties and cooed at babies, he supported the teachers of all levels of education and didn’t mind guns. 

It wasn’t an omega they saw but rather a veil of Victor Nikiforov. 

 

* * *

 

Following the public outing back in 2013, some tabloid reporters had taken to contact all three of Victor’s ex-boyfriends of varying secondary genders. The first and third ex-boyfriends left a fairly disgusting interview that ended up as the big thing on the front covers in the gossip rags. Yuri tore up every single copy of that tabloid newspaper he could find among the interns of the Capitol. Victor didn’t hear about it from his assistant but rather a fellow congressmen who complained about the headstrong and terrifying nature and foul mouth of one Yuri Plisetsky. 

Yuri only made one small mention about the tabloids. 

“Not surprising for you, old man, but you got to stop dating shitty boyfriends.” 

And that was it. 

For Yuri, that was the most Yuri thing he could have said. And the sweetest, oddly enough.

 

* * *

 

Victor ends up talking in the interrogation room the entire day as he answered questions asked by a federal agent of some agency to more questions from another federal agent of some other agency. Cao Bin interrupts only when he deems a question to be irrelevant or potentially self-incriminating. By the time Victor is allowed to return home, he exhaustively greets Makkachin. She wags her tail with little judgement and excitedly licks the little stubble on his chin. 

He laughs, the first time all day. “How are you, girl?” 

The unnamed and unremarkable temporarily-assigned USCP officer quietly slips out of the front door, the premise that is Victor’s apartment deemed secure. 

He runs through his nighttime routine, cooks himself some light dinner that he will be able to put down, sets Makkachin to bed and away from his leather loafers, and sits in his office with curtains drawn over his windows. He reads through the morning newspapers, the only news source that has not yet reported on what Twitter is calling #NikiforovGate, #KatsukiBombing, #FBIdunanOops, and dozens of other hashtags. His smartphone has been turned off and tossed into the fridge after the first three seconds of Twitter trying to load 10k+ tweets, messages, and notifications. 

Once he’s all caught up with the news that doesn’t directly involve his own name, he readies himself for bed. He finds himself laying down on his side, Makkachin happily sleeping in his arms instead of the doggy bed. 

He does not sleep.

He thinks. 

 

* * *

 

Here’s what he didn’t tell Mr. Cao. 

A long, long time ago, back when Victor was still a freshman at the University of Alaska Southeast and never really thought of his own future and before he dreamed of being a Congressman, back when Victor was just another college student with an inkling of ideas about his community and the people, his comparative politics professor told him to not lose sight of life. 

He laughed at the time. “Politics is my life and love.” 

Now, he can’t help but think politics is indeed his life. He made it his business. He made it into his life’s work, a dedicated mission fueled by will, effort, faith, and time. One day, when he’s retired and gone from this world, it’ll become his legacy and what’s left of him, hopefully living beyond him and still improving the lives of the grandchildren, great-grandchildren of the people he served. 

Maybe in the beginning, there was love. 

Day in, day out of weeks, months, years of lobbyists, photoshoots, scandals, Senator Leroy’s annoying son calling his office about this or that, back-stabbing and supportive Congressmen, annoying Senators, the Alaskan state of affairs, the very state of this nation, and everything that once sparkled for Victor has dulled away that love into shades of white, grey, and black. Life moved quickly and fell into a sense of repetitiveness and boredom. 

Then Yuuri Katsuki came along. With his quiet nature, protectiveness that extends beyond professionalism, and the stupid but seductive steps of a courtship in all but name. The value of his character shines through, not flashy or brilliant like the billions of billions of stars in the night sky. But rather understated and constant and steady like the sea, falling and rising and beating away at the rocky shores, softening the rocks into fine sand and eroding away the hardness around Victor’s heart. 

On that one day, there was a little cream on Yuuri’s lip. 

And Victor paused for a moment, reached out for a taste, thinking _oh, I’ve found love again._


	4. Chapter 3

The phone rings the next day. Yuuri blinks groggily and then suddenly snaps himself up. He fumbles for his cell phone and answers a call from. . .

He blinks again. 

Phichit? At 4am in the morning? 

He answers the call, “Hello?”

“Get dressed, meet me in the front asap,” orders Phichit, sound unusually nervous. “I’ll pick you up in two minutes.”

“What’s going on, Phichit?”

“I don’t have time to explain.” He ends the call.

 

* * *

 

 

It’s still fairly dark outside. Yuuri spies an unfamiliar sedan pulling up by the curb. Phichit reaches across to open the passenger seat. “Come in, get in!” 

“Phichit? What are you doing here on a saturday morning?”

“Just get in! Trust me!” 

 

* * *

 

 

“Can I borrow your phone?” Phichit casually asks. 

“Um, sure?” Yuuri hands his phone over, looking around the chair. It’s strangely messy with bags of clothes and papers in the backseat. Come to think of it, Yuuri has never seen Phichit messy even when they were roommates while the instructors at the FBI Academy were breathing down their necks about deadlines. 

Rolling down the window, Phichit tosses Yuuri’s phone out of the window. It shatters on the sidewalk of Virginia’s suburbs. 

The last of Yuuri’s sleepiness disintegrates. “Phichit! What is going on?”

“Don’t panic.”

“Phichit, I’m literally about to panic.” 

“There’s an outstanding warrant out for your arrest. For domestic terrorism.” 

“What,” Yuuri says flatly. “What.”

Phichit’s words makes not a single gram of sense in Yuuri’s head. 

“Look, it would be a big misunderstanding and if I had any faith in the American justice system, I would let you be arrested and let you fight it out in court, but their suspect matches you down to nearly everything. I’ll explain everything when we get to the safe house. You might want to duck your head down while I drive. Avoid surveillance cameras.”

 

* * *

 

 

For the next three hours, Yuuri’s mind whirl as he avoids the traffic cameras. There are heading north, which means they would be somewhere in Maryland. Most likely not D.C. His thoughts stumble over and over on a single word: terrorism.

 

* * *

 

“I didn’t come here alone, you know. I did have common sense to bring backup,” Phichit says, flicking on the lights of the storage room. “Plus, I wasn’t the one who managed to set this place up in two hours.”

Cigarette smoke floats in rings to the ceiling. A hand pushes down on the stub in the metallic ashtray, and Mari Katsuki coolly notes, “You’ve gotten taller, bro.”

 

* * *

 

 

“You recruited my sister?” screams Yuuri. 

“Ha! No, I invited myself,” replies the alpha. A glint of light sends her ear piercings glimmering silver as she turns her head. “I doubt you would even have the balls to do the things they’re accusing of you doing. You love this country too much. But anyone who messes around with my little bro. . .” 

She menacingly cracks her knuckles. 

“But Mari, aren’t you on assignment with the Rangers? Somewhere in South Africa?” 

“I have over two hundred days of paid vacation. I had a little job in Venezuela that I finished before coming here.” 

Yuuri’s eyes nearly bugged out of their sockets. “But, but. . .” He quickly realizes that Mari has over twice the amount of paid vacation days Yuuri has. But he wonders how she even knew he was facing arrest. “How did you even know I was in trouble?”

“Phichit.”

“How do you even know Phichit?” he screeches. 

“We follow each other on Instagram. You don’t post anymore, Yuuri. How else was okaa-san supposed to know you’re still alive?” 

“I call home!” 

“Every two weeks, Yuuri. We get to see pictures of you from the triplets’ Instagram every weekend,” his sister scolds. “It’s not enough!” Mari narrows her dark eyes, the smell of smoke dense in the storage room. “Anyway, let’s get down to business. Phichit, you found the copies of the paperwork they sent to the judge?”

“Yup,” Phichit says, opening the cover of a tablet. It is brand new without any of the silly stickers on its body. The tablet is definitely not Phichit’s personal device. “I’ll forward the copies of them to you.”

Yuuri blinks, peering over Phichit’s shoulder. “How did you even know I was being arrested? How did you get ahold of these things?” 

“Kenji sent them over.”

“Kenji?” Then Yuuri connects the face to the name. “Kenjirou Minami? As in Minami, the assistant of Judge Odagaki?”

“Yup,” Phichit confirms. “You’re the only one who calls him Kenjirou, you know. He’s been a fan of yours ever since you blazed into Judge Odagaki’s office for her signature on the arrest warrant for that embezzling CEO of some major pharmaceutical company. He’s only twenty-two, but he’s going to apply for a job in FBI.”

Yuuri walks over to the concrete wall and begins to thump his head against the hard surface. “He’s never going to get that job now if they knew he tipped me off.” 

Phichit conspiratorially says in a sing-song voice, “Nah, I work right next door to the agents working on your case. I snooped around and heard you were going to be arrested. I tipped you off and helped you evade authorities. You just point fingers at me for breaking a few federal laws.”

“Phichit!” His forehead mildly sore, Yuuri turns around and sinks to the floor. He moans in agony, “We’re all going to jail forever. I’m going down for treason. Phichit’s going down for obstruction of justice. We’ll languish in prison. Our parents will die of poverty and in shame!” 

“Best friends go to jail together forever.”

Mari flicks a cigarette lighter open, the tiny flame blooming between her fingers. “Speak for yourselves. If they get an arrest warrant out for me, I’ll go to work as a mercenary. Our parents will die in luxury.” 

“I like Mari’s plan the best, Yuuri. You're alone now.”

Yuuri groans.

“Thanks, Phichit. So they’re accusing Yuuri of having terror group ties, having a role in the Washington D.C. bombings, and attempting to manipulate an US Congressman. However, I think the latest news is that Congressman Nikiforov is orchestrating all of this, although actual journalists have realized it is not the case. There’s two pieces of evidence that links Yuuri to the terrorist groups. The one that got them the warrant is eyewitness statements and neighbor’s security footage of the car driving up the driveway and the subject walking into the bomber’s home. The one they found later is the matching household products in your apartment, Yuuri.” 

“But how did the security footage get them my arrest warrant?” 

“Something about the Patriot Act. Plus, security footage wasn’t that great, but it managed to get a partial picture of an East Asian man. Your car’s same model and color. Both cars have Virginia plates,” Mari explains. She clicks on her laptop and then beckons the two with her fingers. “Come and look.” 

Yuuri straightens himself from the concrete floor. Walking a few shaky steps, he peers over Mari’s shoulder with Phichit. She presses play on the video filmed possibly by a private home security cam. Time fast forwards itself until about 6am in the morning where a grey-black Toyota Prius climbs up the driveway. Part of the plates are visible, the Virginia markings obvious even in the grimy quality. Then a dark-haired man in a suit and holsters under his suit jacket step out of the driver’s seat.

Mari pulls up another video, this one a few hours later. 

“Even his hairstyle is the same as yours, Yuuri,” comments Phichit. “If I didn’t have proof that was you, I might actually believe it.”

“Wait, what proof?”

“I cross-checked the date of this video with the time you came to the FBI building, and it matches. It isn’t you. Your badge check-in shows you at Baltimore.” 

“You didn’t tell them?”

“Hey, I wasn’t even supposed to know you’re being arrested, Yuuri.”

“Shut up,” mutters Mari. She plays through the video again, slowing down to when fake Yuuri walks out of the house. “There’s something about him that seems familiar.”

“Um, the fact that he disturbingly looks like Yuuri?”

“It’s not that. It’s obvious it isn’t Yuuri to anyone who knows how he walks.” 

“How do I walk?”

“Ohhhh,” Phichit exclaims, clarity sparkling in his eyes. “I see it.”

“How do I walk?” repeats Yuuri. 

“Ask your Congressman,” suggests Mari, sharing an evil grin with Phichit. 

“Mari!”

 

* * *

 

 

It’s after the tenth replay when Mari suddenly snaps her finger. “Oh, I know who this asshat is. I need a burner phone.”

 

* * *

 

 

Mari faux-smiles at the phone, putting on a high voice. “Hi, is this Jane’s Pet Hotel?”

From his corner where he reviews everything he knows about the Congressional Hearings against Victor and everything about the Washington D.C. bombings, he lifts his head with confusion. 

“Oh, great! I see that you have all-day care with grooming. Do you have a live camera so I can check on my dog?” Mari hums in confirmation. “Oh, you don’t? Ah, I work long hours and far away from home. I wish to check on my dog once in a while when I have a break. Oh, thank you, though. Thank you so much.” 

Yuuri shakes his head. He has no idea how this is connected to that Asian man who walked into the bomber’s house. 

She ends the call. Mari inputs another series of numbers. “Hi, is this Capitol Pet Groomer? Oh, I have a dog and I’m wondering if you book cats as well. My dog doesn’t get along with any cats. Or birds.” 

When she finishes that call, Yuuri points out, “You don’t have a dog.”

“Nope,” she says, already dialing another number.

 

* * *

 

 

Two hours later, Mari calls out to the two FBI agents and asks, “Hey, you boys want to help me dognap a Siberian husky from a pet hotel?” 

She’s gone out the door before they could respond.

 

* * *

 

 

“Dognap?”

“Huh, should Mari really have gone? It’s more of your specialty, Yuuri.” 

“It was one time and a complete accident!”

“You’re still a legend for dognapping the Assistant Director’s poodle.”

 

* * *

 

 

“I thought it was a lost dog!”

 

* * *

 

 

Yuuri pauses at the livestream of Channel 7 on Phichit’s laptop. There’s Victor. Looking sharp and clean as ever, Victor walks down the steps of some stairs while being accosted by a large gathering of reporters. But when they zoom in on his flawless face, Yuuri sees the vacantness in his cerulean eyes. 

“Victor,” he whispers, the word not even audible to anything but Yuuri’s heart. 

“Congressman, Congressman, will you deny your connections to terrorism?” shouts one reporter, waving a big microphone at his face. 

“Congressman, over here!”

“Mr. Nikiforov, are you—?”

Yuuri slams the laptop cover down. 

 _Victor._  

 

* * *

 

 

"Yuuri," sings Phichit. "Staring at the Congressman again?" 

Yuuri nervously smiles. "No," he says, a complete liar. 

"You like him," squeals Phichit, laughing. "I hope you follow all steps of a courtship." 

"I didn't follow anything!" Yuuri quickly stands up. "I'm going to the restroom!" 

"Heat partner guidelines aren't the same as courtship. Even if you got a commendation medal for it!" shouts Phichit as Yuuri escapes.

 

* * *

 

 

There’s a place in Yuuri’s mind where he doesn’t go. In that section, he sees all the memories with their respective regrets. There’s Vicchan, buried deeply in his parents’ backyard underneath the orange tree he always pees on. The last time Yuuri saw him was five years before Vicchan’s death. He was in the military then, never taking vacation time to return home. 

There’s the memory of a girl in Afghanistan, too. She stands in front of Yuuri, frozen and afraid and panicking but alive. Only kept alive because of Yuuri. He doubts people remember her now, another unfortunate accidental casualty in the long number of deaths. On the scales of eternity, she wouldn’t weigh a thing. Neither would Yuuri, whispers a thought. 

Then there’s Victor. Yuuri never got the chance to properly say goodbye.

 

* * *

 

 

“Mari, when you said dognapping. . .” Yuuri’s voice drifts into silence and bemusement. 

The Siberian husky cocks its head innocently, wagging its tail without a care in the world. It settles onto the only rug in the storage room they’re occupying. A white paw rolls over a cute squirrel squeak toy. 

“Meet Bada.” Mari flicks open her cigarette lighter. “She’s a very good dog that hates cats and is allergic to flowers. She’s five years old. She is named after the ocean because of her eyes.” 

“When you said you’re looking for fake me, I didn’t think you were going to pick up a dog, Mari.” 

Before she could respond, the burner phone begins to ring. Mari shouts, “Phichit! Trace this call!” Then she waits another ring before picking up on speakerphone. “Hey, John, long time no see. I think I last saw you in Afghanistan.” 

“Mari Katsuki,” replies a smooth, bored voice. “You stole my dog.” 

“Well, you framed my brother. There’s an active arrest warrant out for him.” 

“Hmm.” Yuuri hears a distinct sound of keyboard clicks. “Yuuri Katsuki? Of Maryland? Moved to Virginia six months ago?”

“Originally of California, but yes.”

“He’s FBI.”

“Uh-huh.”

“You don’t seem the type to have a brother in FBI, Mari.”

“Well, I don’t seem the type to kidnap a dog.” 

“Speaking of my dog. . .”

“Your blackmail files for your dog. It cancels out your IOU to me.”

“What blackmail files?”

“Don’t be a dumbass. I’ll text you the address of where to meet.”

 

* * *

 

 

“So who is that guy?”

“Phichit would probably know the nickname the CIA gave him. They call him Shadowwalker. When I was in Libya for a special assignment, I met him for the first time. He uses so many names to the point that no one knows who he really is. Every name CIA digs up, they find another one. He’s like a nesting doll.”

“Oh, I heard of him,” says Phichit, nodding. “Counterterrorism keeps an eye out for this guy. So does Secret Service after he took out some politician in Ukraine from at least a mile away. They have a list of alias he has used that’s a mile long. Bank accounts that frozen and monitored, a line of money that disappears into thin air. He’s a merc and not a pleasant one. Rumors say he was a Chinese operative before he went greedy and decided to go to work for authoritarian regimes. I think the latest rumors were from two years ago when he did something hinky for the Syrian government.”

“Probably. Lots of money to be made there.” Mari continues with her story. “I met him years ago, but I didn’t know who he was at first. He was dressed in the Army’s tactical armor in Libya and fucked up our supply records for a few days back in 2011. I thought he was an idiotic noob sent straight from boot camp. He looked freakishly young. He gave his name as John Kim. Then I saw him in Afghanistan in 2014.”

“What happened in Afghanistan?” Yuuri croaks out, his voice quiet. 

“He was dressed as a South Korean soldier. Nam Jin-Hwan was what they were calling him and on his tags. I think someone hired him to kill the enemy for some reason. He looked a little different, so I wasn’t sure if it was him. But I caught him sneaking out and trying to kill some enemy combatants on enemy territory. He nearly died, because he was shot three times during a gunfight. So I took him back to our medics and they pumped him full of painkillers. He talked a lot about his dog and confessed to a lot of crimes. The next day the Americans were going to ship him to the hands of the CIA, and he was gone by morning. I actually thought he was dead somewhere in the desert.” 

Bada’s ears suddenly perk up, her eyes brightening with delight. She barks twice at the storage door. Her tail wags, thumping against the floor. 

“Ah, he’s here.” Mari holsters her favorite gun and strolls over to the door. 

“Wait, Mari, you gave him our address?” Phichit scrambles for his weapons, dropping his tablet to the floor. He dives under the nearest desk. 

Yuuri stares eyes-wide at his sister. But he trust her. He trust her to have good judgement. He trust her to know what she’s doing. He sits still in his office chair, watching as his sister opens the door to an infamous mercenary. 

 

* * *

 

 

It’s admittedly a little disconcerting how Bada the Siberian husky rushes through Mari’s legs to climb at fake Yuuri’s legs. Clad in a sharp suit with a ballistic vest underneath, the man runs his hands through her fur, checking for any wounds and injuries. Once he finds none, he lets out a sigh of relief. 

“So, you still go by John?” Mari cocks her hip to the side. 

“Technically, I’m going by Eric Lang right now,” he says, his face freakishly blank. “It’s the name on my Swiss accounts.”

A start of the A.C. sends Eric’s plain, generic scent over to Yuuri’s nose. He sniffs discretely harder, taking in further information of this unknown variable. Of this gamechanger. Yuuri has never met a mercenary before, even in his military career, but he could easily imagine Eric as one faceless chameleon blending into the sea of people.  

“We meet for the third time.”

“Unexpectedly,” he comments drily. “You still work for the Army?”

“On paid vacation. I have two hundred thirty-seven paid vacation days to really get my brother out of trouble.” 

He raises an eyebrow. “Makes me cheerful that I never stuck to an honest job.” There’s still not a single sign of “cheerful” in his expression. “Tell me what you want, Mari.”

“Down to business then. I want your blackmail files you have on your client. The client who had you frame my brother. Whether accidentally or purposely.”

“What files?”

Mari narrows her eyes. “You’re really trying now? I know how you operate. You detail everything you do for a client. Their conversations, their paycheck stubs if they have any, their documents. You always have it in case you need to blackmail them if they didn’t pay you. You give them to me now, your life debt to me cancels, and I won’t send Bada to the backwaters of Siberia with my brother.” 

“What life debt? The way I see it is that I would have been left to rot in a secret prison run by the CIA. Death would be far sweeter and kind.”

“But you got the medical attention you needed to continue your life. And you managed to evade the American soldiers. Face it. You owe me your life. Whether here or in prison. So now I’m telling you that I want you to save my brother’s life.” 

The mercenary considers it. Then he tilts his head and requests, “I get a favor from you, Mari Katsuki. A little help on one of my jobs, a little extra assistance of some sorts, or extra information. Not a life debt but a small favor.”

Yuuri’s not quick enough to stop his sister. 

“Done.” 

He curtly nods. “Then it’s settled.” 

 

* * *

 

 

“Your files are incredibly detailed,” says Phichit, who has finally emerged from his hiding spot. “Huh, they kind of remind me of those files that were sent to the _The Guardian_. The files with the video and pictures about the. . . Um, what was it?”

“Human rights crisis in Somalia back in 2008. I did send those files. They didn’t pay me, so they now face the consequences.” 

“It’s a little disturbing that you just implied that if you were paid, then you would have not revealed the severe violations of human rights in Somalia by corrupt government officials.”

Eric or fake Yuuri or whatever-his-name-is shrugs. “It’s business.” 

Phichit squints. “How old are you? I swear, you look like you’re in your 20s with that skin. You and Yuuri have to tell me your secrets. The Asian secrets of eternal youth.”

“Phichit.” Yuuri swipes through another picture in the mercenary’s blackmail file. 

“But seriously, Yuuri. You’re in your 30s, and you look like you’re in your 20s. I’m trying to figure out which country you’re even from, but damn, you sound so American to me right now I’m questioning whether or not I’m even a good FBI Counterterrorism agent. Yuuri, what do you think? Which country?” 

“I don’t specialize in East Asia.”

“Yuuri,” pleas Phichit. 

Yuuri looks at the mercenary’s expressionless face. He could easily pass off as Chinese, Japanese, Korean, Singaporean. . . The list goes on. Yuuri quietly asks, “Can you speak something in Japanese for me?”

“ _Issun saki wa yami_.”

Yuuri remembers his father speaking that Japanese proverb to him and Mari when they were young. “ _Hai_ ,” he softly agrees. “Well, Phichit-kun, he’s not Japanese or American.” 

“How do you even tell?”

“He doesn’t speak in Japanese-American accents like Yuuri and I do, but his Japanese doesn’t suggest a particular region of origin either. It’s too unnatural,” explains Mari. She points at a video fullscreen on Phichit’s tablet, mid-paused on some security video of what appears to be a dock in Maryland. “Is this thing actually real?”

“Yeah,” answers the mercenary. 

“Damn. Why am I so surprised by how low people can go?”

“Power and money drives people to go far and wide, Mari Katsuki.”

 

* * *

 

 

“We have proof, Yuuri. You were targeted.”

 

* * *

 

 

_July 2019_

It takes over a day for them to arrive at the unmapped cabin near the mountains of Virginia. Mari, wearing tactical armor she bought years ago off of the internet, takes care of the two men in black sitting on a rocking chair in front of the cabin. Yuuri and Phichit sneaks around the trees to get in from the back. 

A woman with soft dark hair sits cross-legged in the corner of the room, huddled by blankets. She holds a hijab between her fingers. Chains connect her ankles to a heavy, ancient radiator near the window. She lifts her head up at the two intruders. 

Aliyah Safar’s eyes widen. 

 

* * *

 

 

“I highly doubt anyone would believe me,” she says, her voice small but accented. “I’m better off dead anyway now.”

“I’ll try to see what I can do,” promises Yuuri. He pauses. “Well, my sister will help you find a safe house for you to stay. Thank you for letting me record.”

She nods.

 

* * *

 

 

On July 3rd, Yuuri enters Metropolitan Police Station at 300 Indiana Avenue. He comes in unarmed, already having informed the police and the mainstream media of his intentions to surrender a few hours before. Reporters and photographers shout at him. 

Yuuri hears none of it. 

The world seems so blurry without his glasses. 

 

* * *

 

 

Yuuko-chan takes some time off from her work at Columbia University to help Yuuri with the legal process. He sits in isolation at a maximum security prison, a place where the very people Yuuri put behind bars has never seen before. Their crimes aren't severe enough to warrant maximum security. 

"The only thing good about this is that most of the press is not calling it terrorism. They're calling it an attack, a bombing." 

"It is terrorism." 

“The evidence is very strong against you, Yuuri,” she says.

“I’m not guilty,” Yuuri replies slowly. “I have proof.”

“You’re not going to show me the proof?”

He doesn’t answer her. 

“Well, they want to put you in front of Congress to question how one of their best FBI agents turned face on them before they send you to the military courts. It’ll be fairly public. The military courts won’t be. They’re trying to tie Nikiforov into all of this, which surprises me. I didn’t expect them to turn on their own party.”

“They’ll do anything for power.”

“If you want, you can say exactly this phrase to plead the Fifth Amendment. ‘On the advice of counsel, I must respectfully decline—’”

“It won’t be necessary.”

“What?”

“I’ll be talking.”

“Yuuri, if you talk, they might implicate—”

“I know. This isn’t the first time I’ve been—”

“Yuuri, they’ll do anything they can to nail you to the ground. They’re going to ruin your flawless military career and your good reputation. If you can’t do this right, only Mari can help you. We both know the lengths she’ll go to protect you.”

 

* * *

 

 

At 10:00 am in Washington D.C., Yuuri Katsuki sits alone at a table in front of the Senate Committee of Intelligence and House Committee of Intelligence. The focus is on the allegations of whether or not Congressman Nikiforov is partly to be blamed for the D.C. Bombings. Flashes of light dull his vision. It’s the third hearing Congress has done, the first two closed doors with Congressman Nikiforov, Yuri Plisetsky, Otabek Altin, and a few others due to security concerns. Yuuri wonders if he’s simply unlucky to be the only one with a public hearing or there’s something more sinister. He has in front of him the notes of his testimony. Yuuko-chan sits at a desk behind him, her legal experience of over a decade standing firm. Yuuri’s throat tightens as the vision around him swirls in blurry messes. 

He elect not to wear his glasses today, choosing to not see. Crowds make him nervous. Public speaking, even more so. 

Congress is starving. They’re investigating Yuuri and his alleged connection to terror groups and the bombings, but Yuuri knows what they are after. They want Victor. 

They can’t have him. 

At 10:05am in the United States Capitol, the hearing begins. They swear Yuuri in.

 

* * *

 

 

At 10:07am, Yuuri begins his testimony.

 

* * *

 

 

“Chairman Altin, Ranking Member Leroy, and Members of the Committee, thank you for inviting me here today. I am here to offer the truth to the Committee’s questions and the American people. My name is Yuuri Katsuki. I’m a Japanese-American alpha who has previously worked for the Federal Bureau of Investigation. In early March of this year, I was temporarily transferred to the United States Capitol Police to protect Congressman Victor Nikiforov of Alaska upon my role in a peaceful resolution to the Maryland Amtrak Incident in January.”

Ignoring the persistent flashing of the cameras at his face, Yuuri pauses and then continues, “I successfully talked down a woman named Aliyah Safar who was coerced and threatened by her radicalized husband to detonate an improvised explosive device at Union Station in Washington D.C. I thought to take a peaceful approach due to my experiences in Afghanistan.”

Yuuri pauses, sweat forming underneath his palm. He quickly glances back up, not realizing his gaze has slipped to the ground. He continues slowly, “Upon finishing my education at West Point, I was then assigned to a checkpoint that was near a strategic spot. Many civilians have pass through the checkpoint to escape the violence.

“On July 14, 2012, a woman and a group of men came to the checkpoint. She was holding something in her hands and was acting agitated. I suspected it was an IED,” Yuuri says, the very memories flashing through his eyes as if it’s only yesterday rather than many years ago. “I asked her to please show her hands, but she was screaming and panicking. She suddenly moved, and I shot her.

“It wasn’t an IED. She was five months pregnant. An omega, and I killed her. She is the first I’ve ever killed. I was 22 years old. I served the next four years of my contract with reluctance, awaiting the day I could be honorably discharged. I never thought to leave the armed forces, because I’ve taught myself abandoning causes is a sign of failure. When I was on that Amtrak train heading to Washington D.C. and realized that suicide bombers were on board, my first instinct was to minimize fatalities. My second was negotiation. 

“Negotiation worked, attempting to throw them off the train did not. I came back to work at the FBI a few days later. My boss told me of my transfer to USCP. I spent two months in training preparing myself as a bodyguard, preparing myself to protect lives rather than take. I was assigned to Congressman Victor Nikiforov. I did not know who he was until I googled him the night before my first shift. I still did not know him. His policies and positions tell me nothing of the man himself.

“I had an unflattering image of what Congressman Nikiforov was like. However, over the next several months, I learned the quirks and personalities of Congressman Nikiforov. He could be surprisingly tolerant and then callously flippant the next second. He is charismatic, handsome, wickedly intelligent, and funny. He could be a ‘dumbass’, as called frequently in private and public by his own assistant, Yuri Plisetsky. One time, he left Yuri Plisetsky at a fundraiser to walk a mile to a local pet store to cuddle all the puppies, attempting to convince people to adopt them. Anyone with internet could find a mixtape of Plisetsky’s cursing montage when he found out. 

“He could also be incredibly petty. He admitted he once ate and stole all of the sea salt caramels from the Candy Desk in revenge, just because Congressman Ji ate all of his favorite Hershey white chocolate peppermint kisses. He once sent an early birthday card to Yakov Feltsman and included ten phone numbers of the best nursing homes in Florida on the back. A few months ago, he personally lined up hundreds of glass cups filled with ice in front of Senator Altin’s office for not taking a stronger stance against climate change by reducing the usage of plastics.”

Yuuri ignores the small whispers, somehow finding it in himself to continue. 

“But despite the subtle mischievous nature he exhibits, Congressman Nikiforov deeply cares about people of Alaska and the American people as a whole. The nature of politics has caused him to be hypocritical on numerous issues. He votes for Congressman Jones's PP defunding bill two years ago to ensure the passage of a quietly passed bill for fish subsidies. He supports Senator Altin's Medicare amendment of increasing the low income maximum for government-subsidized premiums to garmer his vote for the Ocean Drain Bill to reduce the amount of waste ending in our seas. 

“Some may say that Mr. Nikiforov's strength is in his stubbornness. I would say that may be one of his strengths, but his greatest one is in reaching to meet people where they are. It's to understand people, to bridge the differences, and to recognize the similarities. 

“For the last few weeks, Mr. Nikiforov has been dragged through the media with incorrect interpretations and facts. He's accused of being complicit with terrorism. He's accused of being hawkish to incite war for profit on behalf of the PACs who fund his campaign. He's accused of infringing on American civil liberties.

“Let it be known that I'm the last person who should defend him. Two weeks ago, there was an arrest warrant for me because of suspected ties to terror groups. I avoided arrest until a few days ago. My subpoenaed medical records show I suffer from mild insomnia and severe anxiety disorders. I was prescribed medication that I never took. 

“Yet I am here today, because I believe that the truth should prevail. Lies should not be tolerated, and I hope what comes out of the destruction of these lies will ultimately be justice.”

 

* * *

 

 

Then the questions begin.

 

* * *

 

 

Chairman Altin of Senate Committee of Intelligence asks Yuuri a few standard questions. His name, his address. Then there is the outdated secondary gender question, even though Yuuri has already stated this in his opening statement.

“Alpha,” answers Yuuri. 

“You are heterozygous?” Senator Altin doesn’t seem to like asking either. 

Yuuri leans down to his microphone. “Thoroughbred.” 

He ignores the dozens of whispers starting behind his back. He can’t help but notice some of the Congressmen tittering amongst each other. Thoroughbreds, like Yuuri and his sister, aren’t particularly common, but they are stronger alphas than heterozygous alphas. Keen sense of smell, better eyes, and sharper predator instincts. Every one of Yuuri’s and Mari’s children is guaranteed to be an alpha. Blue blood thoroughbreds just love comparing each other’s pedigree. The Katsuki’s alpha gene could be traced back to the age of the samurai and old military commanders, originally serving on behalf of the Japanese imperial family. 

Senator Altin asks a few more questions that could easily be found in a job interview. The number of years he worked in the armed forces, the number of years he spent in the FBI, his specialized training in his military career, and then he moves onto the harder question. 

“Can you describe what happened on the Amtrak Incident in January? From the beginning.” 

Yuuri begins his story, telling about suspicious people and the nervous Amtrak employee who told him of the situation once he flashed his FBI badge. He talks about traveling from New York to Washington D.C. to drop off his goddaughters at their father's house. He knows he has already written his report on the incident, but it feels like writing it all over again. 

Senator Altin looks stoically at Yuuri, a complete replica of Otabek's stoic nature. Yet, Yuuri doesn't feel the sense that he's being judged or standing at the edge of a figurative plank, just waiting to be pushed into the unforgiving waters below. 

“Thank you, Mr. Katsuki.” A pause. “You grew up in California, correct?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“You also said you graduated from West Point.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Who gave you Congressional nomination?” 

That throws Yuuri off. He hesitates. “You did, sir.” 

There's not even a look of surprise on the Senator's face. Yuuri briefly wonders if the Senator even had a point to make. The Senator reshuffle his papers around, glancing off at the sudden influx of flashing lights and cameras of the reporters. 

Then the Chairman, Senator Altin, turns to the ranking member. “Senator Leroy, your questions please.” 

“Uh, thank you, Mr. Chairman.” Senator Leroy shuffles his papers around and then stare straight at Yuuri. 

There are rows of seats behind the Committee. Yuuri thinks he could somewhat see his son, JJ Leroy, sitting in one of them. It’s a little difficult to tell without his glasses. 

It’s another few seconds before the Senator begins his questions. 

“Mr. Katsuki, did you do any favors on behalf of Congressman Nikiforov on your job?”

“I did my job. Nothing more, nothing less.” 

“So you did not fix any problems nor did you break any laws on orders of Congressman Nikiforov nor did you represent him in a political manner?”

“That would be correct, sir.”

“Did Congressman Nikiforov ever use trickery or espionage for political gains?” 

“No, sir.” 

“Did you ever use trickery or espionage for Congressman Nikiforov with or without his knowledge?” 

“No, sir.” 

“Before your assignment with USCP, did you have any relationship with Congressman Nikiforov?”

“No, sir.” 

“Did you have any connection to any suspicious persons or terrorist groups?”

“No, sir.” 

“Why did you avoid arrest, Mr. Katsuki?” 

“I was tipped off about the reasons for my arrest by my coworker who believed I was being charged on false charges.” 

“Can you name this coworker?” 

Yuuri pauses. “Phichit Chulanont.” 

“Did he work for FBI or USCP?”

“FBI.” Yuuri quickly adds, “In fact, if you would like to talk to him, he's sitting behind the press tables right now.” 

Senator Leroy reshuffles his papers, looking unamused. 

“Mr. Katsuki, local police found the same household products and tools and residue used by D.C. bomber in your apartment. How could this be explained as wrongful evidence?” 

“I reported to the local police that my apartment has been broken into on June 17, 2019 at 9pm after I came back from work. I reported that one of the weapons registered to me, a Glock 19, was missing. It's the same gun that was used to commit suicide by one of the attackers. I didn't check if anything has been left by the thieves.” 

“You believe that the thieves implanted evidence?” There’s a hint of disbelief in Senator Leroy’s words. 

“Yes.” Yuuri leans forward, closer to the microphone. “There are all these objects left in my apartment that doesn't possess a single fingerprint from me. My hands do not have residue of the bombs used. My very own training from the military never taught me how to make explosives. I majored in macroeconomics at West Point, I specialized in counterintelligence. I didn't go anywhere near bombs in the FBI, because I lack the knowledge to build and disarm these things.” 

“How did you even not know that these objects have been in your apartment for a week?” 

“We have been seeing an increase in the amount of threats against Congressman Nikiforov. I was pulling overtime to make sure security arrangements were in place. As soon as I’m home, I’m asleep.” 

“Mr. Katsuki, you were seen by eyewitness accounts near the bomber's house in Virginia on June 14, 2019 at 6am in the morning. This is a few days after the second attack.” 

Yuuri knows this detail. Eyewitness accounts have seen an East Asian man in a suit walking up to the door and entering the house in the Virginian suburbans, not leaving until 8am. It was a Friday. Yuuri's shift with security detail of the Congressman starts at 11am and ends at 7pm on that day. 

It's also the strongest evidence other than the evidence of household products and other objects in Yuuri's apartment. 

“Well, the problem, Senator Leroy, is that it isn't me. In fact, I've checked my badge in at 6:30am at the federal building in Baltimore. Security cameras have seen me leaving at 10am for my shift with USCP. I’m certain the FBI would be happy to give the Committee the tapes and time stamps.” 

Yuuri ignores the slight murmuring behind him. Of doubt. There is hope in their doubt about Yuuri’s guilt.  

“Senator Leroy, your time is up. Congressman Ji, your questions, please,” Chairman Altin cuts in. 

“Thank you, Mr. Chairman,” says a young Chinese-American Congressman from Northern California. He's only 26. “Mr. Katsuki, I would like to thank you for being here today.” 

“No, it's my honor to be here today, sir.” 

“Your arrest warrant came out on June 29, 2019. You let yourself be handed over to the authorities on July 3rd. What were you doing those few days?” 

“Working with Agent Chulanont and my sister, Mari Katsuki, to clear my name. We were investigating what happened.” 

“Well, what, if anything, did you discover?” 

“We found my whereabouts for me on June 14, and we built a timeline. We started with the Amtrak Incident in January. That's when it all began.” 

“How did that incident pertain to the D.C. attacks?” 

“The woman I talked down, Aliyah Safar, was born in Afghanistan. She grew up there. She struggled for an education, but what she did have were old chemistry textbooks from the era before the Afghanistan War. Her father was a bomb expert in the Afghan National Security Forces, and she discovered she possessed his talent. Her father died at the hands of the Taliban, and she was forced to be married at fifteen to a radicalized man. She has two children still in Afghanistan. Dead or alive, she doesn't know. He forced her to build bombs. They came here under Saudi Arabian passports a year ago.” 

“But where's the connection?” 

“She told the D.C. bomber how to build their bombs after she was arrested by U.S. authorities.” 

“That's impossible,” Congressman Ji blurts out. He shuffles over his paper. “She's being held at Guantanamo Bay.” 

Yuuri leans again at the microphone. He simply asks, “Is she?” 

“Mr. Katsuki,” Congressman Ji says, reshuffling through his papers. “How is that possible?” 

“Her husband is in Guantanamo Bay. He's deemed by the CIA and Counterterrorism Division of FBI as being too dangerous. She, on the other hand, was supposed to go, but never did. She was recruited and paired up with terror operatives by a major U.S. politician in a bid to gain more votes and power. That politician is Senator Leroy.” 

The room explodes into chaos, Senator Altin desperately hitting the gavel to regain order of the room. The press yells questions at Yuuri, and there, rising, is Senator Leroy accusing Yuuri of slander and libel and treason. 

Yuuri talks straight into his microphone, the noise level dying down. “Enter the following address into your browser. 178-dot-838-dot-128-dot-133. Download the file called truth.” 

The audio recording of Senator Leroy talking to the CIA Director plays, every damning second high on the speakers of phones and laptops. It's of Senator Leroy, desperate for a restoration of control of both Houses in Congress. All recorded by an Asian mercenary named Eric Lang, who is the very same man hired by Senator Leroy to do his dirty work. The same man Mari tracked down on her own. 

Screaming into the microphone and losing his composure for the first time, the Chairman calls for the hearing to be adjourned. 

 

* * *

 

 

The website contains more than just an audio recording. There's picture evidence of the CIA Director in Virginia, releasing Aliyah away from prying eyes. There's Aliyah's video confession of her side of the story, starting from when she was a teenager. There's email communication between Senator Leroy's aide to an FBI agent currently installed in the FBI investigation on Congressman Nikiforov. There’s security footage and secret recordings of conversations with Senator Leroy’s wife, who evidently knew of the plot. His son, JJ, remains unclear in whether or not he’s complicit. There's copies of paychecks from Swiss accounts amounting to over a million to the alias of a well-known mercenary in the espionage world. 

An independent investigator link those accounts through shell companies and firms to find out who controls them.

Senator Leroy. 

The mercenary once known as the Shadowwalker by the espionage world, also known by his common aliases of John Kim and Eric Lang and Yu Jae-Hyun and Nam Jin-Hwan, never takes a job again. 

Born as Lee Seung-gil in Suwon of South Korea, the omega is thousands and thousands of miles away from the figuratively lethal earthquake centered at Washington D.C, at the Capitol Building. He leans back in his chair and wonders what identity he'll take now. His husky nudges his knuckles with her nose, and her tail thumps against the leg of his chair.

 

* * *

 

 

Four days and a weekend later, after the FBI arrested Leroy and the CIA Director along with various members of his staff, the Congressional Hearing convenes once more. Chairman Altin, looking stoic again, sits at the center. To his left, where Senator Leroy once occupied, is Victor. Victor, who didn't attend the first series of hearings. Victor, who was questioned extensively for hours non-stop by the FBI, Secret Service, and anyone who wanted a piece of him. Victor, who was repeatedly dragged through the media. Victor, who was earlier interrogated by Congress for information he doesn’t have. Victor, who finally is called innocent. 

He looks composed and stylized as ever, but his cerulean eyes have went to Yuuri's face for not even a moment, a brief millisecond. His dark black suit fits well over his frame, his silver bangs pushed away from his face. He has a fingertip at the corner of his lips. 

Chairman Altin takes the floor from Senator Michele Crispino of Illinois. He looks at Victor and says, “Congressman Nikiforov, your questions, please.” 

“Thank you, Mr. Chairman,” Victor replies. He possesses not a single sheet of paper in front of him, perhaps not prepared for a return to the Committee seat. “I want to say that the last few weeks have been the most nerve-wracking ordeal I've ever been through. And that includes the time we were split 267 to 266 when it came to our government shutdown.” 

That elicit a laugh or a chuckle from almost everyone. 

“I want to thank Mr. Yuuri Katsuki, Agent Phichit Chulanont of FBI, Supervisory Agent Celestino Cialdini, U.S. Army Ranger Mari Katsuki, our investigators at the FBI, our local law enforcement, and countless others who have averted a major crisis that could have potentially killed thousands in D.C. I never thought this would happen, that a sick hunger for power has caused a well-known and respected politician to use such a gross tactic to solidified his base. 

“But it's not just Senator Leroy and high-level bureaucrats who are the problem. Who set up these dominoes that allowed Senator Leroy to shift the pieces around to manipulate the American people?” 

_We did._

“We did,” answers Victor. “We allowed our hate and fear to control so much of us that it's being used against us. To manipulate us. To draw our attention away from the real issues. We elected this kind of man into one of the highest public offices in this land. A man, who lies, who cheats, who pressures people into doing things in his interest. 

“How did Senator Leroy even convince the Director of the Central Intelligence Agency, one of the most powerful agencies we have in the name of national security, do this? How? Every person here and in this country should be struck by the corruption there is for Senator Leroy to be allowed to quietly remove a woman with dangerous knowledge and send her into our society with orders to bomb our own Capitol. Ask yourself, how corrupt is our system? Realize that we're only beginning to find how deep it goes. Realize that it was in front of us all along.”

Victor finally focuses his gaze on Yuuri. “Thank you, Mr. Chairman, I yield the rest of my time.”

 

* * *

 

 

Quietly, Yuuri wonders if Victor still cares for him. 

He left behind quite a mess. 

 

* * *

 

 

Representing Arizona, Congressman Leo de la Iglesia taps his pen on the stack of papers in front of him. He narrows his eyes at Yuuri and inquires, “You worked for the USCP. What reason did you have to visit the federal building in Baltimore on June 14, 2019?” 

“I was going to request my boss to transfer me back to the FBI, sir.” 

“Why did you request this?” 

“I felt I was being too close to Congressman Nikiforov, sir.” 

“Close in what way?” 

Yuuri pauses. 

“Please answer the question.”

“I felt I was too attracted to Congressman Nikiforov.” Suddenly, once the words slipped out of Yuuri’s mouth, Yuuri’s palms feels sweaty with nerves. 

“Attracted? On a superficial level? Or more?” 

Yuuri swallows. After an intense pause, he answers, “I wanted him.” 

“Can you please elaborate?” 

Yuuri's face flush. He feels the hot press of the video cameras on him, the sudden flashes of the camera lights makes his face feel too warm, and he suddenly wishes he could be anywhere but here. Perhaps Senator Leroy would be so kind to have shoved a bomb under his seat right now for he has never felt greater pressure in his entire life and in Afghanistan than in this moment. 

“Mr. Katsuki? Can you please answer the question in detail?” 

He could feel Victor's eyes on him, too. Piercing, waiting. He could feel Victor holding his breath from so many meters away. 

“Victor is the first person ever that I want to hold on to. It's far more than a professional relationship I'm supposed to have with him. I wanted to be in his life in a different way. I wanted to court him. Not as his alpha bodyguard. But as a regular man, a regular alpha. As myself to Victor. Which was why I put in the papers for transfer, so I could properly do so.” 

“Do you love him?” 

He slowly begins to nod. Then Yuuri finds his voice. “Yes. Yes, I do.”

 

* * *

 

 

It is agonizing to wait for the hearing to end when all Yuuri wants to do is run for the mountains and live as a hermit surviving on deer and other wildlife on the Rocky Mountains for the rest of his life. But finally, Chairman Altin brings the hearing to a close with a statement of his own that Yuuri mostly ignored out of sheer anxiety. 

Standing up without any prison guards following his every step, Yuuri turns away from the dismissed Committee of Intelligence and ignores the thousands of constantly flashing lights of the cameras and shoutings of the press. He moves towards the exit with Phichit and Yuuko, both dressed finely in formal wear for the hearing.

“Yuuri!” shouts a familiar voice, just right behind him. 

“Huh?” 

Without a warning, there's a flash of silver hair and then Yuuri is thrown to the floor on his back with warm lips on his own. There's this light scent of ice and sweet tea and strawberry jam and. . . The smell of an omega. 

A happy omega. 

 _Victor._  

Completely forgetting about the cameras, Yuuri returns his kiss and relaxes his head against Victor's hand on the floor. “Victor.” 

Victor pulls back, shaking his head at Yuuri. “I thought you meant you were going to leave me forever,” he breathes.

“I never meant that. I'm staying until you tell me to go. For better or worse.” 

Victor smiles, his mouth heart-shaped. “That sounds like a marriage proposal.”

 

* * *

 

 

Sitting in Otabek's apartment with popcorn, Yuri Plisetsky begins screaming at the television. His boyfriend, Otabek Altin, doesn't even flinch from the yelling. He tosses popcorn into his mouth, stoic eyes watching the screen without blinking.

“THOSE DAMN IDIOTS! MORONS! I CAN'T BELIEVE HE COULDN'T KEEP IT IN HIS PANTS FOR ANOTHER HOUR.” 

“Yuri.” 

“THEY KISSED LIVE ON C-SPAN!” 

“Yuri, do you want the neighbors to make a noise complaint again?” 

“FUCKING IDIOTS!” 

“Yuri, I'll make a mixtape out of your cursing again. It'll have its own hashtag on Twitter.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Do I even know why you have connections to people here, Mari?”

“Phichit, I have lots of connections that I’ve made over the years in the Army,” she says, her fingers smoothly rolling her silver cigarette lighter with an engraved American flag on its side. “Yuuri only serve what he needed to, but I made a career out of it. Social networking happens to be part of it.” 

“Really, this is a little bit more than what I expected. . . Especially after my boss’ boss fired me, you know.” 

Passing by the National Security Agency’s seal on the wall, Mari stops in her red high heels and turns her head to look at the stunned former FBI agent. “Come on, you have a job interview in 10 minutes. You don’t want to be late.”

 

* * *

 

 

This time, Yuuri doesn’t return to his apartment. He returns to Victor’s place. 

Toying with the edges of his own tie in his living room, Victor comments, “You’ve never been to a finishing school after high school, have you?” 

Yuuri’s eyes are caught at Victor’s fingers, enraptured by the way they tease the edges, never quite actually unraveling the tie. He shakes himself awake, looking up at Victor’s stunningly _bright_ blue eyes. He has never been more aware of the simple fact that Victor’s an omega than in this moment.

Finishing schools are typically a three months class taken right after high school and usually cost nothing to attend at the local community colleges. It’s where students learned about the dynamics and the little things about them, such as nesting, territory marking, and more. The classes with high tuition fees are usually reserved for students of privileged backgrounds. They still have a one-year finishing school class at Harvard University that was created back in the 18th century, or so Yuuri has heard. 

“West Point had a one month class I took the first semester I got there.”

“So no. From what I remember of the syllabus in that class in the military, it only had the bare minimum and requested you get more information from a dynamics specialist or a counselor if you needed it. Needless to say, it caused many problems in the military over the years. It’ll take a while before they’ll change the syllabus to update to the most recent information,” says Victor, casually slipping off his navy blue tie with deft fingers. “But the point is. . . You’ve never learned the courting rituals of an alpha to an omega.”

This, Yuuri pauses at. A sudden, panicking, unbidden thought enters his mind, sweat beading out from beneath his palms. “Uh, no,” he says slowly, drawing out the last syllable.  

Yuuri knows it. He has most definitely committed some sort of social faux pas. 

Victor tsks at this, looking a little peeved and unsurprised but nevertheless pushing forward. “I figured. Did you know that you have completed every step all five steps of the courtship, Yuuri Katsuki? The _primal_ way instead of the typical modern method?” There’s a lilting tone on _primal_ , a sound that triggers the beginnings of _something_ in Yuuri. 

Yuuri has distantly heard of the five steps to a primal courtship, which holds roots and traditions from the Hunter-Gatherer days. Less than 10 percent of alpha-omega bondings are forged this way. There are eight steps in a modern courtship that became almost the norm and the most popular way since the Middle Ages. Asia has their own standard three methods, which Yuuri is only somewhat familiar with. 

He also has been one of the most oblivious, unsocial, clueless person he has ever known to the eternal agony and despair of his parents, Mari, Phichit, and Minako. From the way Sara sometimes talks about him, he suspects the special agents and their bosses at the FBI think so too. 

But perhaps his subconscious has always known, and it is only his actual brain that needed to catch up after all this time. 

“You went out of your way for everything you do for me,” breathes Victor, barely a few inches away from the alpha. “You offered me your shirt, containing your scent, your very essence, triggering the first step. Token of scent. I accepted. You defended me from threats, you stayed with me longer than you had to. More than you professionally needed to. You gave me your company, your presence, your comfort. You showed me your thoughts. You provided gifts of coffee. You helped me when you didn’t have to. You cooked katsudon, and you fed it to me, provided nourishment. You risked your career for me. And most importantly of all, there’s not a place in this apartment where I do not smell _you_.” 

Yuuri’s quiet, stunned into contemplation and stark awareness of the astounding fact that. . . It’s true. Every word. It’s the truth. And he’s been a complete fool to ignore his alpha side that has been screaming at him for _months._

“You’ve been asking if I wanted to accept this courtship. In a very roundabout way.” Victor smiles at that. “The answer is yes. Always yes for you, Katsuki Yuuri.” 

With those words, Victor has slaughtered Yuuri. With a raised hand and then an offered scent gland on his wrist, Victor revives Yuuri and meets him where he stands. So alive in this very moment, Yuuri willingly, whole-heartedly breathes in Victor’s sweet, seductive pheromones. He spirals into a desperate rut, tugging Victor along with him to the bedroom. Victor complies, mouthing kisses at Yuuri’s neck and inhaling his rut pheromones. 

They end up in a cycle of sex, sleep, and then sex and sleep again. Yuuri loses count of how many times he bites into Victor’s scent gland on his neck, creating a new bond between alpha and omega. He feels intense ecstasy every time Victor bites back, solidifying the bond. It is, overall, an excellent night.

 

* * *

 

 

_Two years later_

Yuuri noses at the freshly renewed mating bond on the back of Victor's neck. It's early. Maybe seven in the morning. His hand curls protectively around Victor's stomach. He's really beginning to show at five months, a form Yuri calls “the whale.” Yesterday, Victor made a point about unable to see his feet due to the twins and laughed when Yuri said it meant Victor was truly getting fat. 

Twins, both alpha girls. Their first children. He hopes they will have Victor's eyes. 

Victor turns, kissing at the corner of Yuuri's lip. “When do you have to work?” 

“I'll have to be at the Richmond field offices at 11. When do you finish the hearing?” Surprisingly or unsurprisingly, Victor won another term as representative for Alaska-at-large. He's no longer ranking member for House Committee of Intelligence though. He's in the House Committee of Natural Resources now. He's still in Energy and Commerce. 

“4. I'll be home by 5.” 

“I'll aim for 5, too. No later than 6.” 

 

* * *

 

 

It's five in the afternoon, but there's not a single soul in sight. Victor isn't the slightest bit surprised. He put up his coat on the hanger, glancing around the apartment. Weirdly enough, his beta bodyguard from USCP chose not to go in and instead remained in the lobby. 

He finds the bedroom light oddly turned on. Makkachin has her nose buried in a filled doggy bowl, which means. . . 

Victor quicken his waddles. The twins have been preventing him from moving too fast. Yuri says he's been growing bald and big, because he’s hosting hellspawns that are sucking away at little specks of his soul. 

He pauses at Yuuri, who casually lays on top of covers and pillows with black lace lingerie set with gold linings. His pale, muscular chest is not even covered by the thin lace straps over his shoulders, and his hair was slicked back with gel. His eyes, shadowed lightly with bronze eyeshadow, look at Victor from underneath beautiful eyelashes. The scent of a pleased, eager alpha registers in Victor's brain. 

“Yuuri,” he breathes, heart stuck in his throat. He's probably soaked through his underwear now at this seductive sight. 

“Vitya,” Yuuri purrs. “Close the door.” 

He wouldn't trade his life and love for anything else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Know thy self, know thy enemy. A thousand battles, a thousand victories.” -Sun Tzu
> 
> Issun saki wa yami. - It is dark one inch ahead of you. <\- A Japanese proverb that means “You can’t see the future.” 
> 
> Character List:  
> Yuuri - Alpha  
> Victor (R-Alaska) - Omega  
> Mari - Alpha  
> Triplets - unpresented  
> Yuuko - Beta  
> Yuri - Alpha  
> Otabek - Omega  
> Senator Altin (D-California) - Alpha  
> Senator Leroy (R-Ohio) - Alpha  
> Seung-gil - Omega  
> Sara - Alpha  
> Michele (R-Illinois) - Alpha  
> Guang-Hong (D-California) - Omega  
> Leo (D-Arizona) - Beta  
> Phichit - Alpha


End file.
